EAKLY  ASD  LATE  PAPEES 


HITHERTO    UNCOLLECTED. 


BY 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


PR 


NOTE. 

SEVERAL  years  ago,  when  the  author  of  these 
papers  visited  America,  he  had  the  pleasant  habit 
of  quoting  to  his  friends  phrases,  and  sometimes 
long  paragraphs,  from  his  earlier  contributions  to 
the  English  periodicals ;  and  when  asked  why  he 
had  not  included  these  magazine  articles  among 
his  other  miscellanies,  he  replied,  "  They  are  small 
potatoes,"  adding,  at  the  same  time,  "  but  pretty 
good  small  potatoes,  I  believe."  The  collector  of 
these  Thackeray-valuables  remembers  also  when 
he  begged  the  author  to  bring  together  his  scat- 
tered contributions  to  "Fraser"  and  "Punch," 
he  replied :  "  Do  it  yourself,  mon  ami ;  write  the 
preface,  and  I'll  stand  by  you." 

It  seems  a  real  loss  to  the  admirers  of  that 
fine  genius  to  allow  so  much  that  he  has  writ- 
ten to  remajn  longer  shut  up  in  the  somewhat 


IV  NOTE. 

inaccessible  pages  of  foreign  periodicals,  and  this 
volume  is  published  for  those  who  treasure  every- 
thing that  came  sparkling  from  Thackeray's  pen. 
Much  yet  remains  uncollected  of  this  great  mas- 
ter's contributions  to  the  current  magazine  litera- 
ture of  his  day,  and  at  some  future  time  other 
volumes,  similar  in  character  to  this  one,  may 

appear  from  the  same  press. 

J.  T.  F. 

BOSTON,  May,  1867. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGH 

MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING 1 

MEN  AND  COATS 38 

BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST 63 

DICKENS  IN  FRANCE 95 

JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OP  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER        .  122 
LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND  EOAD-SIDE  SKETCHES. 

No.  L  FROM  RICHMOND  IN  SURREY  TO  BRUSSELS  IN 

BELGIUM 139 

No.  II.   GHENT.  —  BRUGES        .  167 

No.  III.  WATERLOO 181 

ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES 188 

PICTURE  GOSSIP 222 

THE  ANONYMOUS  IN  PERIODICAL  LITERATURE    .        .  250 

GOETHE '  256 

A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK 261 

THE  LAST  SKETCH 269 

"  STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER  "  .        .        .        .  274 

AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU 282 

ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS 295 

ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  Souci 308 


VI  CONTENTS. 

DESSEIN'S 317 

ON  A  PEAR-TREE 332 

ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH        .        .        .  342 

ON  ALEXANDRINES       .  354 

THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE 365 

DE  FINIBUS .  396 


EARLY  AND   LATE   PAPERS. 


MEMORIALS   OF   GORMANDIZING. 

IN   A   LETTER   TO   OLIVER  YORKE,  ESQ.,   BY   M.  A.  TITMARSH. 

PARIS,  May,  1341. 

]IR,  —  The  man  who  makes  the  best  salads  in 
London,  and  whom,  therefore,  we  have  face- 
tiously called  Sultan  Saladin,  —  a  man  who 
is  conspicuous  for  his  love  and  practice  of  all 
the  polite  arts,  —  music,  to  wit,  architecture,  painting,  and 
cookery,  —  once  took  the  humble  personage  who  writes 
this  into  his  library,  and  laid  before  me  two  or  three  vol- 
umes of  manuscript  year-books,  such  as,  since  he  began  to 
travel  and  to  observe,  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of  keeping. 
Every  night,  in  the  course  of  his  rambles,  his  highness 
the  Sultan  (indeed,  his  port  is  sublime,  as,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  are  all  the  wines  in  his  cellar)  sets  down  with  an 
iron  pen,  and  in  the  neatest  handwriting  in  the  world,  the 
events  and  observations  of  the  day ;  with  the  same  iron 
pen  he  illuminates  the  leaf  of  his  journal  by  the  most  faith- 
ful and  delightful  sketches  of  the  scenery  which  he  has 
witnessed  in  the  course  of  the  four-and-twenty  hours ;  and 
if  he  has  dined  at  an  inn  or  restaurant,  gasthaus,  posada, 
albergo,  or  what  not,  invariably  inserts  into  his  log-book 
the  bill  of  fare.  The  Sultan  leads  a  jolly  life,  —  a  tall, 
stalwart  man,  who  every  day  about  six  o'clock  in  London 
and  Paris,  at  two  in  Italy,  in  Germany  and  Belgium  at  an 
1  A 


2  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

hour  after  noon,  feels  the  noble  calls  of  hunger  agitating 
his  lordly  bosom  (or  its  neighborhood,  that  is),  and  replies 
to  the  call  by  a  good  dinner.  Ah  !  it  is  wonderful  to  think 
how  the  healthy  and  philosophic  mind  can  accommodate 
itself  in  all  cases  to  the  varying  circumstances  of  the  time, 
—  how,  in  its  travels  through  the  world,  the  liberal  and 
cosmopolite  stomach  recognizes  the  national  dinner-hour ! 
Depend  upon  it  that,  in  all  countries,  nature  has  wisely 
ordained  and  suited  to  their  exigencies  THE  DISHES  OF  A 
PEOPLE.  I  mean  to  say  that  olla  podrida  is  good  in  Spain 
(though  a  plateful  of  it,  eaten  in  Paris,  once  made  me  so 
dreadfully  ill  that  it  is  a  mercy  I  was  spared  ever  to  eat 
another  dinner),  —  I  mean  to  say,  and  have  proved  it,  that 
sauer-kraut  is  good  in  Germany;  and  I  make  no  doubt 
that  whale's  blubber  is  a  very  tolerable  dish  in  Kamschat- 
ka,  though  I  have  never  visited  the  country.  Cannibalism 
in  the  South  Seas,  and  sheepsheadism  in  Scotland,  are  the 
only  practices  that  one  cannot,  perhaps,  reconcile  with  this 
rule,  —  at  least,  whatever  a  man's  private  opinions  may  be, 
the  decencies  of  society  oblige  him  to  eschew  the  expres- 
sion of  them,  upon  subjects  which  the  national  prejudice 
has  precluded  from  free  discussion. 

Well,  after  looking  through  three  or  four  of  Saladin's 
volumes,  I  grew  so  charmed  with  them  that  I  used  to 
come  back  every  day  and  study  them.  I  declare  there 
are  bills  of  fare  in  those  books  over  which  I  have  cried ; 
and  the  reading  of  them,  especially  about  an  hour  before 
dinner,  has  made  me  so  ferociously  hungry,  that,  in  the 
first  place,  the  Sultan  (a  kind-hearted,  generous  man,  as 
every  man  is  who  loves  his  meals)  could  not  help  inviting 
me  to  take  potluck  with  him  ;  and,  secondly,  I  could  eat 
twice  as  much  as  upon  common  occasions,  though  my  ap- 
petite is  always  good. 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  3 

Lying  awake,  then,  of  nights,  or  wandering  solitary 
abroad  on  wide  commons,  or  by  the  side  of  silent  rivers, 
or  at  church  when  Dr.  Snufflem  was  preaching  his  favor- 
ite sermon,  or  stretched  on  the  flat  of  my  back  smoking  a 
cigar  at  the  club  when  X  was  talking  of  the  corn-laws, 
or  Y  was  describing  that  famous  run  they  had  with  the  Z 
hounds,  —  at  all  periods,  I  say,  favorable  to  self-examina- 
tion, those  bills  of  fare  have  come  into  my  mind,  and  often 
and  often  I  have  thought  them  over.  "  Titmarsh,"  I  have 
said  to  myself,  "  if  ever  you  travel  again,  do  as  the  Sultan 
has  done,  and  keep  your  dinner-bills.  They  are  always 
pleasant  to  look  over  ;  they  always  will  recall  happy  hours 
and  actions,  be  you  ever  so  hard  pushed  for  a  dinner,  and 
fain  to  put  up  with  an  onion  and  a  crust :  of  the  past  fate 
cannot  deprive  you.  Yesterday  is  the  philosopher's  prop- 
erty ;  and  by  thinking  of  it,  and  using  it  to  advantage,  he 
may  gayly  go  through  to-morrow,  doubtful  and  dismal 
though  it  be.  Try  this  lamb  stuffed  with  pistachio-nuts ; 
another  handful  of  this  pillau.  Ho,  you  rascals!  bring 
round  the  sherbet  there,  and  never  spare  the  jars  of  wine, 
—  'tis  true  Persian,  on  the  honor  of  a  Barmecide!"  Is 
not  that  dinner  in  the  "Arabian  Nights"  a  right  good 
dinner  ?  Would  you  have  had  Bedreddin  to  refuse  and 
turn  sulky  at  the  windy  repast,  or  to  sit  down  grinning  in 
the  face  of  his  grave  entertainer,  and  gayly  take  what 
came  ?  Remember  what  came  of  the  honest  fellow's  phi- 
losophy. He  slapped  the  grim  old  prince  in  the  face; 
and  the  grim  old  prince,  who  had  invited  him  but  to 
laugh  at  him,  did  presently  order  a  real  and  substantial 
repast  to  be  set  before  him,  —  great  pyramids  of  smoking 
rice  and  pillau  (a  good  pillau  is  one  of  the  best  dishes  in 
the  world),  savory  kids,  snow-cooled  sherbets,  luscious 
wine  of  Schiraz ;  with  an  accompaniment  of  moon-faced 


4  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

beauties  from  the  harem,  no  doubt,  dancing,  singing,  and 
smiling  in  the  most  ravishing  manner.  Thus  should  we, 
my  dear  friends,  laugh  at  Fate's  beard,  as  we  confront 
him,  —  thus  should  we,  if  the  old  monster  be  insolent,  fall 
to  and  box  his  ears.  He  has  a  spice  of  humor  in  his 
composition ;  and  be  sure  he  will  be  tickled  by  such  con- 
duct. 

Some  months  ago,  when  the  expectation  of  war  be- 
tween England  and  France  grew  to  be  so  strong,  and 
there  was  such  a  talk  of  mobilizing  national  guards,  and 
arming  three  or  four  hundred  thousand  more  French  sol- 
diers, —  when  such  ferocious  yells  of  hatred  against  per- 
fidious Albion  were  uttered  by  the  liberal  French  press, 
that  I  did  really  believe  the  rupture  between  the  two 
countries  was  about  immediately  to  take  place ;  being 
seriously  alarmed,  I  set  off  for  Paris  at  once.  My  good 
sir,  what  could  we  do  without  our  Paris  ?  I  came  here 
first  in  1815  (when  the  Duke  and  I  were  a  good  deal  re- 
marked by  the  inhabitants)  ;  I  proposed  but  to  stay  a 
week;  stopped  three  months,  and  have  returned  every 
year  since.  There  is  something  fatal  in  the  place,  —  a 
charm  about  it,  —  a  wicked  one  very  likely,  —  but  it  acts 
on  us  all ;  and  perpetually  the  old  Paris  man  comes  hie- 
ing back  to  his  quarters  again,  and  is  to  be  found,  as 
usual,  sunning  himself  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Painters, 
princes,  gormands,  officers  on  half-pay,  —  serious  old 
ladies  even  acknowledge  the  attraction  of  the  place, — 
are  more  at  ease  here  than  in  any  other  place  in  Europe; 
and  back  they  come,  and  are  to  be  found  sooner  or  later 
occupying  their  old  haunts. 

My  darling  city  improves,  too,  with  each  visit,  and  has 
some  new  palace,  or  church,  or  statue,  or  other  gimcrack, 
to  greet  your  eyes  withal.  A  few  years  since,  and  lo ! 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  5 

on  the  column  of  the  Place  Vendome,  instead  of  the  shabby 
tri-colored  rag,  shone  the  bronze  statue  of  Napoleon. 
Then  came  the  famous  triumphal  arch ;  a  noble  building 
indeed  !  —  how  stately  and  white  and  beautiful  and  strong 
it  seems  to  dominate  over  the  whole  city.  Next  was  the 
obelisk;  a  huge  bustle  and  festival  being  made  to  wel- 
come it  to  the  city.  Then  came  the  fair  asphaltum  ter- 
races round  about  the  obelisk ;  then  the  fountains  to  dec- 
orate the  terraces.  I  have  scarcely  been  twelve  months 
absent,  and  behold  they  have  gilded  all  the  Naiads  and 
Tritons ;  they  have  clapped  a  huge  fountain  in  the  very 
midst  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  —  a  great,  glittering,  froth- 
ing fountain,  that  to  the  poetic  eye  looks  like  an  enormous 
shaving-brush  ;  and  all  down  the  avenue  they  have  placed 
hundreds  of  gilded,  flaring  gas-lamps,  that  make  this  gay- 
est walk  in  the  world  look  gayer  still  than  ever.  But  a 
truce  to  such  descriptions,  which  might  carry  one  far,  very 
far,  from  the  object  proposed  in  this  paper. 

I  simply  wish  to  introduce  to  public  notice  a  brief  din- 
ner-journal. It  has  been  written  with  the  utmost  honesty 
and  simplicity  of  purpose ;  and  exhibits  a  picture  or  table 
of  the  development  of  the  human  mind  under  a  series  of 
gastronomic  experiments,  diversified  in  their  nature,  and 
diversified,  consequently,  in  their  effects.  A  man  in  Lon- 
don has  not,  for  the  most  part,  the  opportunity  to  make 
these  experiments.  You  are  a  family  man,  let  us  pre- 
sume, and  you  live  in  that  metropolis  for  half  a  century. 
You  have  on  Sunday  say,  a  leg  of  mutton  and  potatoes 
for  dinner.  On  Monday  you  have  cold  mutton  and  potatoes. 
On  Tuesday,  hashed  mutton  and  potatoes ;  the  hashed  mut- 
ton being  flavored  with  little  damp,  triangular  pieces  of 
toast,  which  always  surround  that  charming  dish.  Well, 
on  Wednesday,  the  mutton  ended,  you  have  beef ;  the  beef 


6  MEMORIALS  OF   GORMANDIZING. 

undergoes  the  same  alternations  of  cookery,  and  disappears. 
Your  life  presents  a  succession  of  joints,  varied  every  now 
and  then  by  a  bit  of  fish  and  some  poultry.  You  drink 
three  glasses  of  a  brandyfied  liquor  called  sherry  at  dinner ; 
your  excellent  lady  imbibes  one.  When  she  has  had  her 
glass  of  port  after  dinner,  she  goes  up  stairs  with  the  chil- 
dren, and  you  fall  asleep  in  your  arm-chair.  Some  of  the 
most  pure  and  precious  enjoyments  of  life  are  unknown 
to  you.  You  eat  and  drink,  but  you  do  not  know  the  art 
of  eating  and  drinking ;  nay,  most  probably  you  despise 
those  who  do.  "  Give  me  a  slice  of  meat,"  say  you,  very 
likely,  "  and  a  fig  for  your  gourmands."  You  fancy  it  is 
very  virtuous  and  manly  all  this.  Nonsense,  my  good 
sir ;  you  are  indifferent  because  you  are  ignorant,  because 
your  life  is  passed  in  a  narrow  circle  of  ideas,  and  because 
you  are  bigotedly  blind  and  pompously  callous  to  the  beau- ' 
ties  and  excellences  beyond  you. 

Sir,  RESPECT  YOUR  DINNER  ;  idolize  it,  enjoy  it  prop- 
erly. You  will  be  by  many  hours  in  the  week,  many 
weeks  in  the  year,  and  many  years  in  your  life,  the  hap- 
pier if  you  do. 

Don't  tell  us  that  it  is  not  worthy  of  a  man.  All  a 
man's  senses  are  worthy  of  employment,  and  should  be 
cultivated  as  a  duty.  The  senses  are  the  arts.  What 
glorious  feasts  does  Nature  prepare  for  your  eye  in  ani- 
mal form  in  landscape  and  painting !  Are  you  to  put  out 
your  eyes  and  not  see?  What  royal  dishes  of  melody 
does  her  bounty  provide  for  you  in  the  shape  of  poetry, 
music,  whether  windy  or  wiry,  notes  of  the  human  voice, 
or  ravishing  song  of  birds !  Are  you  to  stuff  your  ears 
with  cotton,  and  vow  that  the  sense  of  hearing  is  unman- 
ly ?  —  you  obstinate  dolt  you !  No,  surely ;  nor  must 
you  be  so  absurd  as  to  fancy  that  the  art  of  eating  is  ia 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  7 

any  way  less  worthy  than  the  other  two.  You  like  your 
dinner,  man ;  never  be  ashamed  to  say  so.  If  you  don't 
like  your  victuals,  pass  on  to  the  next  article;  but  re- 
member that  every  man  who  has  been  worth  a  fig  in  this 
world,  as  poet,  painter,  or  musician,  has  had  a  good  appe- 
tite and  a  good  taste.  Ah,  what  a  poet  Byron  would 
have  been  had  he  taken  his  meals  properly,  and  allowed 
himself  to  grow  fat,  —  if  nature  intended  him  to  grow  fat, 
—  and  not  have  physicked  his  intellect  with  wretched 
opium  pills  and  acrid  vinegar,  that  sent  his  principle  to 
sleep,  and  turned  his  feelings  sour  I  If  that  man  had  re- 
spected his  dinner,  he  never  would  have  written  "  Don 
Juan." 

Allans  done  !  enough  sermonizing ;  let  us  sit  down  and 
fall  to  at  once. 

I  dined  soon  after  my  arrival  at  a  very  pleasant  Paris 
club,  where  daily  is  provided  a  dinner  for  ten  persons, 
that  is  universally  reported  to  be  excellent.  Five  men 
in  England  would  have  consumed  the  same  amount  of 
victuals,  as  you  will  see  by  the  bills  of  fare  :  — 


Desserts  of  cheese.    Pears  and  Fontainebleau  grapes. 
Bordeaux  red,  and  excellent  chablis  at  discretion. 

This  dinner  was  very  nicely  served.  A  venerable 
maitre  d'hotel  in  black,  cutting  up  neatly  the  dishes  on  a 
trencher  at  the  side-table,  and  several  waiters  attending 


8  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING- 

in  green  coats,  red  plush  tights,  and  their  hair  curled. 
There  was  a  great  quantity  of  light  in  the  room ;  some 
handsome  pieces  of  plated  ware ;  the  pheasants  came  in 
with  their  tails  to  their  backs ;  and  the  smart  waiters, 
with  their  hair  dressed  and  parted  down  the  middle,  gave 
a  pleasant,  lively,  stylish  appearance  to  the  whole  affair. 

Now  I  certainly  dined  (by  the  way,  I  must  not  forget 
to  mention  that  we  had  with  the  beef  some  boiled  kidney 
potatoes,  very  neatly  dished  up  in  a  napkin),  —  I  certainly 
dined,  I  say ;  and  half  an  hour  afterwards  felt,  perhaps, 
more  at  my  ease  than  I  should  have  done  had  I  consulted 
my  own  inclinations,  and  devoured  twice  the  quantity 
that  on  this  occasion  came  to  my  share.  But  I  would 
rather,  as  a  man  not  caring  for  appearances,  dine,  as  a 
general  rule,  off  a  beefsteak  for  two  at  the  Cafe  Foy, 
than  sit  down  to  take  a  tenth  part  of  such  a  meal  every 
day.  There  was  only  one  man  at  the  table  besides  your 
humble  servant  who  did  not  put  water  into  his  wine ;  and 
he  —  I  mean  the  other  —  was  observed  by  his  friends, 
who  exclaimed,  "  Comment  vous  buvez  sec,"  as  if  to  do 
so  was  a  wonder.  The  consequence  was,  that  half  a  dozen 
bottles  of  wine  served  for  the  whole  ten  of  us ;  and  the 
guests,  having  despatched  their  dinner  in  an  hour,  skipped 
lightly  away  from  it,  did  not  stay  to  ruminate  and  to  feel 
uneasy,  and  to  fiddle  about  the  last  and  penultimate  waist- 
coat button,  as  we  do  after  a  house-dinner  at  an  English 
club.  What  was  it  that  made  the  charm  of  this  dinner  ? 
—  for  pleasant  it  was.  It  was  the  neat  and  comfortable 
manner  in  which  it  was  served ;  the  pheasant-tails  had  a 
considerable  effect;  that  snowy  napkin  coquettishly  ar- 
ranged round  the  kidneys  gave  them  a  distingue  air ;  the 
light  and  the  glittering  service  gave  an  appearance  of 
plenty  and  hospitality  that  sent  everybody  away  contented. 


MEMOKIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  9 

I  put  down  this  dinner  just  to  show  English  and  Scotch 
housekeepers  what  may  be  done,  and  for  what  price. 
Say,— 

s.    d. 

Soup  and  fresh  bread  |     Imecost          ^     g     fi 
Beef  and  carrots    .    O 
Fowls  and  sauce         ....         3     6 

Pheasants  (hens) 50 

Grapes,  pears,  cheese,  vegetables        .        3     0 

14     0 

For  fifteen  pence  par  tete,  a  company  of  ten  persons 
may  have  a  dinner  set  before  them,  —  nay,  and  be  made 
to  fancy  that  they  dine  well,  provided  the  service  is  hand- 
somely arranged,  that  you  have  a  good  stock  of  side-dishes, 
&c.,  in  your  plate-chest,  and  don't  spare  the  spermaceti. 

As  for  the  wine,  that  depends  on  yourself.  Always  be 
crying  out  to  your  friends,  "  Mr.  So-and-so,  I  don't  drink 
myself,  but  pray  pass  the  bottle.  Tomkins,  my  boy, 
help  your  neighbor,  and  never  mind  me.  What !  Hop- 
kins, are  there  two  of  us  on  the  Doctor's  list  ?  Pass  the 
wine  ;  Smith  I  'm  sure  won't  refuse  it " ;  and  so  on.  A 
very  good  plan  is  to  have  the  butler  (or  the  fellow  in  the 
white  waistcoat,  who  "behaves  as  sich")  pour  out  the 
wine  when  wanted  (in  half-glasses,  of  course),  and  to 
make  a  deuced  great  noise  and  shouting,  "John,  John, 
why  the  devil,  sir,  don't  you  help  Mr.  Simkins  to  an- 
other glass  of  wine  ?  "  If  you  point  out  Simkins  once  or 
twice  in  this  way,  depend  upon  it,  he  won't  drink  a  great 
quantity  of  your  liquor.  You  may  thus  keep  your  friends 
from  being  dangerous  by  a  thousand  innocent  manoeuvres; 
and,  as  I  have  said  before,  you  .may  very  probably  make 
them  believe  that  they  have  had  a  famous  dinner.  There 
was  only  one  man  in  our  company  of  ten  the  other  day 
1* 


10  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

who  ever  thought  that  he  had  not  dined ;  and  what  was 
he  ?  A  foreigner,  —  a  man  of  a  discontented,  inquiring 
spirit,  always  carping  at  things,  and  never  satisfied. 

Well,  next  day  I  dined  au  cinquieme  with  a  family  (of 
Irish  extraction,  by  the  way),  and  what  do  you  think  was 
our  dinner  for  six  persons  ?  Why,  simply,  — 

Nine  dozen  Ostend  oysters ; 
Soup  a  la  mulligatawny ; 
Boiled  turkey,  with  celery  sauce ; 
Saddle  of  mutton  roti. 

Removes.     Plompouding ;  croute  de  macaroni. 
Vin  Beaune  ordinaire,  volnay,  bordeaux,  champagne,  eau 
chaude,  cognac. 

I  forget  the  dessert.  Alas !  in  moments  of  prosperity 
and  plenty,  one  is  often  so  forgetful :  I  remembered  the 
dessert  at  the  Cercle  well  enough. 

A  person  whom  they  call  in  this  country  an  illustration 
litterairC)  —  the  editor  of  a  newspaper,  in  fact,  —  with  a 
very  pretty  wife,  were  of  the  party,  and  looked  at  the 
dinner  with  a  great  deal  of  good-humored  superiority.  I 
declare,  upon  my  honor,  that  I  helped  both  the  illustra- 
tion and  his  lady  twice  to  saddle  of  mutton ;  and  as  for 
the  turkey  and  celery  sauce,  you  should  have  seen  how 
our  host  dispensed  it  to  them!  They  ate  the  oysters, 
they  ate  the  soup  ("  Diable  !  mais  il  est  poivre  !  "  said  the 
illustration,  with  tears  in  his  eyes),  they  ate  the  turkey, 
they  ate  the  mutton,  they  ate  the  pudding ;  and  what  did 
our  hostess  say?  Why,  casting  down  her  eyes  gently, 
and  with  the  modestest  air  in  the  world,  she  said,  "  There 
is  such  a  beautiful  piece  of  cold  beef  in  the  larder ;  do 
somebody  ask  for  a  little  slice  of  it." 

Heaven  bless  her  for  that  speech!  I  loved  and  re- 
spected her  for  it ;  it  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes.  A 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  11 

man  who  could  sneer  at  such  a  sentiment  could  have 
neither  heart  nor  good-breeding.  Don't  you  see  that  it 

shows 

Simplicity, 

Modesty, 

Hospitality. 
Put  these  against 

Waiters  with  their  hair  curled, 
Pheasants  roasted  with  their  tails  on, 
A  dozen  spermaceti  candles. 

Add  them  up,  I  say,  O  candid  reader,  and  answer,  in  the 
sum  of  human  happiness,  which  of  the  two  accounts  makes 
the  better  figure  ? 

I  declare,  I  know  few  things  more  affecting  than  that 
little  question  about  the  cold  beef;  and  considering  calmly 
our  national  characteristics,  balancing  in  the  scale  of  quiet 
thought  our  defects  and  our  merits,  am  daily  more  in- 
clined to  believe  that  there  is  something  in  the  race  of 
Britons  which  renders  them  usually  superior  to  the  French 
family.  This  is  but  one  of  the  traits  of  English  charac- 
ter that  has  been  occasioned  by  the  use  of  roast  beef. 

It  is  an  immense  question,  that  of  diet.  Look  at  the 
two  bills  of  fare  just  set  down, — the  relative  consumption 
of  ten  animals  and  of  six.  What  a  profound  physical 
and  moral  difference  may  we  trace  here.  How  distinct, 
from  the  cradle  upwards,  must  have  been  the  thoughts, 
feelings,  education  of  the  parties  who  ordered  those  two 
dinners.  It  is  a  fact  which  does  not  admit  of  a  ques- 
tion, that  the  French  are  beginning,  since  so  many  Eng- 
lish have  come  among  them,  to  use  beef  much  more  pro- 
fusely. Everybody  at  the  restaurateur's  orders  beefsteak 
and  pommes.  Will  the  national  character  slowly  undergo 
a  change  under  the  influence  of  this  dish?  WTill  the 


12  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

French  be  more  simple  ?  broader  in  the  shoulders  ?  less 
inclined  to  brag  about  military  glory  and  such  humbug  ? 
All  this  in  the  dark  vista  of  futurity  the  spectator  may 
fancy  is  visible  to  him,  and  the  philanthropist  cannot  but 
applaud  the  change.  This  brings  me  naturally  to  the 
consideration  of  the  manner  of  dressing  beefsteaks  in  this 
country,  and  of  the  merit  of  that  manner. 

I  dined  on  a  Saturday  at  the  Cafe  Foy,  on  the  Boule- 
vard, in  a  private  room,  with  a  friend.     We  had 

Potage  julienne,  with  a  little  puree  in  it ; 

Two  entrecotes  aux  epinards ; 

One  perdreau  truffe ; 

One  fromage  roquefort ; 

A  bottle  of  nuits  with  the  beef; 

A  bottle  of  sauterne  with  the  partridge. 

And  perhaps  a  glass  of  punch,  with  a  cigar,  afterwards : 
but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  insertion  of  the 
puree  into  the  julienne  was  not  of  my  recommending; 
and  if  this  junction  is  effected  at  all,  the  operation  should 
be  performed  with  the  greatest  care.  If  you  put  too 
much  puree,  both  soups  are  infallibly  spoiled.  A  much 
better  plan  it  is  to  have  your  julienne  by  itself,  though  I 
will  not  enlarge  on  this  point,  as  the  excellent  friend  with 
whom  I  dined  may  chance  to  see  this  notice,  and  may  be 
hurt  at  the  renewal  in  print  of  a  dispute  which  caused  a 
good  deal  of  pain  to  both  of  us.  By  the  way,  we  had  half 
a  dozen  sardines  while  the  dinner  was  getting  ready,  eating 
them  with  delicious  bread  and  butter,  for  which  this  place 
is  famous.  Then  followed  the  soup.  Why  the  deuce 
would  he  have  the  pu — ;  but  never  mind.  After  the 
soup,  we  had  what  I  do  not  hesitate  to  call  the  very  best 
beefsteak  I  ever  ate  in  my  life.  By  the  shade  of  Helio 
gabalus !  as  I  write  about  it  now,  a  week  after  I  have 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  13 

eaten  it,  the  old,  rich,  sweet,  piquant,  juicy  taste  comes 
smacking  on  my  lips  again ;  and  I  feel  something  of  that 
exquisite  sensation  I  then  had.  I  am  ashamed  of  the  de- 
light which  the  eating  of  that  piece  of  meat  caused  me. 
G.  and  I  had  quarrelled  about  the  soup  (I  said  so,  and 
don't  wish  to  return  to  the  subject)  ;  but  when  we  began 
on  the  steak,  we  looked  at  each  other,  and  loved  each 
other.  We  did  not  speak,  —  our  hearts  were  too  full  for 
that ;  but  we  took  a  bit,  and  laid  down  our  forks,  and 
looked  at  one  another  and  understood  each  other.  There 
were  no  two  individuals  on  this  wide  earth,  —  no  two  lov- 
ers billing  in  the  shade,  —  no  mother  clasping  baby  to  her 
heart,  more  supremely  happy  than  we.  Every  now  and 
then  we  had  a  glass  of  honest,  firm,  generous  Burgundy, 
that  nobly  supported  the  meat.  As  you  may  fancy,  we 
did  not  leave  a  single  morsel  of  the  steak ;  but  when  it  was 
done,  we  put  bits  of  bread  into  the  silver  dish,  and  wist- 
fully sopped  up  the  gravy.  I  suppose  I  shall  never  in 
this  world  taste  anything  so  good  again.  But  what  then  ? 
What  if  I  did  like  it  excessively  ?  Was  my  liking  unjust 
or  unmanly  ?  Is  my  regret  now  puling  or  unworthy  ?  No. 
"  Laudo  manentem!"  as  Titmouse  says.  When  it  is 
eaten,  I  resign  myself,  and  can  eat  a  two-franc  dinner  at 
Richard's  without  ill  humor  and  without  a  pang. 

Any  dispute  about  the  relative  excellence  of  the  beef- 
steak cut  from  the  filet,  as  is  usual  in  France,  and  of  the 
entrecote,  must  henceforth  be  idle  and  absurd.  When- 
ever, my  dear  young  friend,  you  go  to  Paris,  call  at  once 
for  the  entrecote ;  the  filet  in  comparison  to  it  is  a  poor 
fade  lady's  meat.  What  folly,  by  the  way,  is  that  in 
England  which  induces  us  to  attach  an  estimation  to  the 
part  of  the  sirloin  that  is  called  the  Sunday  side,  —  poor, 
tender,  stringy  stuff,  not  comparable  to  the  manly  meat 


14  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

on  the  other  side,  handsomely  garnished  with  crisp  fat, 
and  with  a  layer  of  horn !  Give  the  Sunday  side  to 
misses  and  ladies'  maids,  for  men  be  the  Monday's  side, 
or,  better  still,  a  thousand-fold  more  succulent  and  full  of 
flavor,  —  the  ribs  of  beef.  This  is  the  meat  I  would  eat 
were  I  going  to  do  battle  with  any  mortal  foe.  Fancy  a 
hundred  thousand  Englishmen,  after  a  meal  of  stalwart 
beef  ribs,  encountering  a  hundred  thousand  Frenchmen, 
who  had  partaken  of  a  trifling  collation  of  soup,  turnips, 
carrots,  onions,  and  Gruyere  cheese.  Would  it  be  manly 
to  engage  at  such  odds  ?  I  say  no. 

Passing  by  Verey's  one  day,  I  saw  a  cadaverous  cook 
with  a  spatula,  thumping  a  poor  beefsteak  with  all  his 
might.  This  is  not  only  a  horrible  cruelty,  but  an  error. 
They  not  only  beat  the  beef,  moreover,  but  they  soak  it 
in  oil.  Absurd,  disgusting  barbarity !  Beef  so  beaten 
loses  its  natural  spirit ;  it  is  too  noble  for  corporal  punish- 
ment. You  may  by  these  tortures  and  artifices  make  it 
soft  and  greasy,  but  tender  and  juicy  never. 

The  landlord  of  the  Cafe  de  Foy  (I  have  received  no 
sort  of  consideration  from  him)  knows  this  truth  full  well, 
and  follows  the  simple,  honest  plan ;  first,  to  have  good 
meat,  and  next  to  hang  it  a  long  time.  I  have  instructed 
him  how  to  do  the  steaks  to  a  turn ;  not  raw,  horribly 
livid  and  blue  in  the  midst,  as  I  have  seen  great  flaps  of 
meat  (what  a  shame  to  think  of  our  fine  meat  being  so 
treated!),  but  cooked  all  the  way  through.  Go  to  the 
Cafe"  Foy  then,  ask  for  a  BEEFSTEAK  A  LA  TITMARSH, 
and  you  will  see  what  a  dish  will  be  set  before  you.  I  have 
dwelt  upon  this  point  at  too  much  length,  perhaps,  for 
some  of  my  readers ;  but  it  can't  be  helped.  The  truth 
is,  beef  is  my  weakness ;  and  I  do  declare,  that  I  derive 
more  positive  enjoyment  from  the  simple  viand  than  from 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  15 

any  concoction  whatever  in  the  whole  cook's  cyclopae- 
dia. 

Always  drink  red  wine  with  beefsteaks ;  port,  if  pos- 
sible ;  if  not,  Burgundy,  of  not  too  high  a  flavor,  —  good 
beaune  say.  This  fact,  which  is  very  likely  not  known 
to  many  persons  who,  forsooth,  are  too  magnificent  to 
care  about  their  meat  and  drink,  —  this  simple  fact  I 
take  to  be  worth  the  whole  price  I  shall  get  for  this  ar- 
ticle. 

But  to  return  to  dinner.  We  were  left,  I  think,  G. 
and  I,  sopping  up  the  gravy  with  bits  of  bread,  and  de- 
claring that  no  power  on  earth  could  induce  us  to  eat  a 
morsel  more  that  day.  At  one  time  we  thought  of  coun- 
termanding the  perdreau  aux  truffes,  that  to  my  certain 
knowledge  had  been  betruffed  five  days  before. 

Poor  blind  mortals  that  we  were !  ungrateful  to  our 
appetites,  needlessly  mistrustful  and  cowardly.  A  man 
may  do  what  he  dares ;  nor  does  he  know,  until  he  tries, 
what  the  honest  appetite  will  bear.  We  were  kept  wait- 
ing between  the  steak  and  the  partridge  some  ten  minutes 
or  so.  For  the  first  two  or  three  minutes,  we  lay  back 
in  our  chairs  quiet,  exhausted  indeed.  Then  we  began 
to  fiddle  with  a  dish  of  toothpicks,  for  want  of  anything 
more  savory ;  then  we  looked  out  of  the  window ;  then 
G.  got  in  a  rage,  rung  the  bell  violently,  and  asked, 
"  Pourquoi  diable  nous  fait  on  attendre  si  long  temps  ?  " 
The  waiter  grinned.  He  is  a  nice,  good-humored  fellow, 
Auguste ;  and  I  heartily  trust  that  some  reader  of  this 
may  give  him  a  five-franc  piece  for  my  sake.  Auguste 
grinned  and  disappeared. 

Presently,  we  were  aware  of  an  odor  gradually  coming 
towards  us,  something  musky,  fiery,  savory,  mysterious, 
—  a  hot,  drowsy  smell,  that  lulls  the  senses,  and  yet  in- 


16  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

flames  them,  —  the  troubles  were  coming !  Yonder  they 
lie,  caverned  under  the  full  bosom  of  the  red-legged  bird. 
My  hand  trembled  as,  after  a  little  pause,  I  cut  the  ani- 
mal in  two.  G.  said  I  did  not  give  him  his  share  of  the 
troufles ;  I  don't  believe  I  did.  I  spilled  some  salt  into 
my  plate,  and  a  little  cayenne  pepper,  —  very  little :  we 
began,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  the  following  conver- 
sation :  — 

Gustavus.  "  Chop,  chop,  chop." 

Michael  Angela.   «  Globlobloblob." 

G.  "Gobble." 

M.  A.   "Obble." 

G.   "  Here  's  a  big  one." 

M.  A.  "  Hobgob.  What  wine  shall  we  have  ?  I  should 
like  some  champagne." 

G.   "  It 's  bad  here.     Have  some  sauterne." % 

M.  A.   "  Very  well.     Hobgobglobglob,"  &c. 

Auguste  (opening  the  sauterne).  "  Cloo-oo-oo-oop ! " 
The  cork  is  out ;  he  pours  it  into  the  glass,  glock,  glock, 
glock. 

Nothing  more  took  place  in  the  way  of  talk.  The 
poor  little  partridge  was  soon  a  heap  of  bones,  —  a  very 
little  heap.  A  trufflesque  odor  was  left  in  the  room,  but 
only  an  odor.  Presently  the  cheese  was  brought:  the 
amber  sauterne  flask  had  turned  of  a  sickly  green  hue ; 
nothing  save  half  a  glass  of  sediment  at  the  bottom,  re- 
mained to  tell  of  thg  light  and  social  spirit  that  had  but 
one  half-hour  before  inhabited  the  flask.  Darkness  fell 
upon  our  little  chamber;  the  men  in  the  street  began 
crying,  "  Messager  I  Journal  du  Soir!"  The  bright 
moon  rose  glittering  over  the  tiles  of  the  Rue  Louis  de 
Grand,  opposite,  illuminating  two  glasses  of  punch  that 
two  gentlemen  in  a  small  room  of  the  Cafe"  de  Foy  did 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  17 

ever  and  anon  raise  to  their  lips.  Both  were  silent ;  both 
happy ;  both  were  smoking  cigars,  —  for  both  knew  that 
the  soothing  plant  of  Cuba  is  sweeter  to  the  philosopher 
after  dinner  than  the  prattle  of  all  the  women  in  the  world. 
Women,  —  pshaw !  The  man,  who,  after  dinner,  —  after 
a  good  dinner,  —  can  think  about  driving  home,  and  shav- 
ing himself  by  candle-light,  and  enduing  a  damp  shirt, 
and  a  pair  of  tight  glazed  pumps  to  show  his  cobweb 
stockings,  and  set  his  feet  in  a  flame ;  and,  having  under- 
gone all  this,  can  get  into  a  cold  cab  and  drive  off  to  No. 
222  Harley  Street,  where  Mrs.  Mortimer  Smith  is  at 
home ;  where  you  take  off  your  cloak  in  a  damp,  dark 
back  parlor,  called  Mr.  Smith's  study,  and  containing, 
when  you  arrive,  twenty-four  ladies'  cloaks  and  tippets, 
fourteen  hats,  two  pair  of  clogs  (belonging  to  two  gentle- 
men of  the  Middle  Temple,  who  walk  for  economy,  and 
think  dancing  at  Mrs.  Mortimer  Smith's  the  height  of  en- 
joyment) ;  —  the  man  who  can  do  all  this,  and  walk,  grace- 
fully smiling,  into  Mrs.  Smith's  drawing-rooms,  where 
the  brown  holland  bags  have  been  removed  from  the 
chandeliers ;  a  man  from  Kirkman's  is  thumping  on  the 
piano,  and  Mrs.  Smith  is  standing  simpering  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  dressed  in  red,  with  a  bird  of  paradise  in 
her  turban,  a  tremulous  fan  in  one  hand,  and  the  other 
clutching  hold  of  her  little  fat  gold  watch  and  seals ;  — 
the  man  who,  after  making  his  bow  to  Mrs.  Smith,  can 
advance  to  Miss  Jones,  in  blue  crajte,  and  lead  her  to  a 
place  among  six  other  pairs  of  solemn-looking  persons, 
and  whisper  fadaisies  to  her  (at  which  she  cries,  "  0  fie, 
you  naughty  man !  how  can  you  ? "),  and  look  at  Miss 
Smith's  red  shoulders  struggling  out  of  her  gown,  and 
her  mottled  elbows  that  a  pair  of  crumpled  kid  gloves 
leave  in  a  state  of  delicious  nature ;  and,  after  having 


18  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

gone  through  certain  mysterious  quadrille  figures  with  her, 
lead  her  back  to  her  mamma,  who  has  just  seized  a  third 
glass  of  muddy  negus  from  the  black  footman;  —  the 
man  who  can  do  all  this  may  do  it,  and  go  hang,  for  me ! 
And  many  such  men  there  be,  my  Gustavus,  in  yonder 
dusky  London  city.  Be  it  ours,  my  dear  friend,  when 
the  day's  labor  and  repast  are  done,  to  lie  and  ruminate 
calmly ;  to  watch  the  bland  cigar-smoke  as  it  rises  gently 
ceiling- wards ;  to  be  idle  in  body  as  well  as  mind ;  not  to 
kick  our  heels  madly  in  quadrilles,  and  puff  and  pant  in 
senseless  gallopades ;  let  us  appreciate  the  joys  of  idle- 
ness ;  let  us  give  a  loose  to  silence ;  and  having  enjoyed 
this,  the  best  dessert  after  a  goodly  dinner,  at  close  of  eve, 
saunter  slowly  home. 

*  *  #  # 

As  the  dinner  above  described  drew  no  less  than  three 
franc  pieces  out  of  my  purse,  I  determined  to  economize 
for  the  next  few  days,  and  either  to  be  invited  out  to  din- 
ner, or  else  to  partake  of  some  repast  at  a  small  charge, 
such  as  one  may  have  here.  I  had  on  the  day  succeeding 
the  troufled  partridge  a  dinner  for  a  shilling,  viz. :  — 

Bifsteck  aux  pommes  (heu  quantum  mutatus  ab  illo !) 

Galantine  de  volaille, 

Fromage  de  Gruyere, 

Demie-bouteille  du  vin  tres-vieux  de  macon  on  chablis, 

Pain  a  discretion. 

This  dinner,  my  J'oung  friend,  was  taken  about  half 
past  two  o'clock  in  the  day,  and  was,  in  fact,  a  breakfast, 
—  a  breakfast  taken  at  a  two-franc  house,  in  the  Rue 
Heure  Vivienne ;  it  was  certainly  a  sufficient  dinner :  I 
certainly  was  not  hungry  for  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 
Nay,  the  wine  was  decently  good,  as  almost  all  wine  is 
in  the  morning,  if  one  had  the  courage  or  the  power  to 


MEMORIALS  OF   GORMANDIZING.  19 

drink  it.  You  see  many  honest  English  families  march- 
ing into  these  two-franc  eating-houses  at  five  o'clock,  and 
fancying  they  dine  in  great  luxury.  Returning  to  Eng- 
land, however,  they  inform  their  friends  that  the  meat  in 
France  is  not  good ;  that  the  fowls  are  very  small,  and 
black ;  the  kidneys  very  tough ;  the  partridges  and  fruit 
have  no  taste  in  them ;  and  the  soup  is  execrably  thin. 
A  dinner  at  Williams's,  in  the  Old  Bailey,  is  better  than 
the  best  of  these ;  and  therefore  had  the  English  Cockney 
better  remain  at  Williams's,  than  judge  the  great  nation 
so  falsely. 

The  worst  of  these  two-franc  establishments  is  a  horrid 
air  of  shabby  elegance  which  distinguishes  them.  At 
some  of  them  they  will  go  the  length  of  changing  your 
knife  and  fork  with  every  dish ;  they  have  grand  chimney- 
glasses,  and  a  fine  lady  at  the  counter,  and  fine  arabesque 
paintings  on  the  walls ;  they  give  you  your  soup  in  a 
battered  dish  of  plated  ware,  which  has  served  its  best 
time,  most  likely,  in  a  first-rate  establishment,  and  comes 
here  to  etaler  its  second-hand  splendor  amongst  amateurs 
of  a  lower  grade.  I  fancy  the  very  meat  that  is  served 
to  you  has  undergone  the  same  degradation,  and  that 
some  of  the  mouldy  cutlets  that  are  offered  to  the  two- 
franc  epicures  lay  once  plump  and  juicy  in  Verey's  larder. 
Much  better  is  the  sanded  floor  and  the  iron  fork ! 
Homely  neatness  is  the  charm  of  poverty:  elegance 
should  belong  to  wealth  alone.  There  is  a  very  decent 
place  where  you  dine  for  thirty-two  sous  in  the  Passage 
Choiseuil.  You  get  your  soup  in  china  bowls  ;  they  don't 
change  your  knife  and  fork,  but  they  give  you  very  fit  por- 
tions of  meat  and  potatoes,  and  mayhap  a  herring  with 
mustard  sauce,  a  dish  of  apple  fritters,  a  dessert  of  stewed 
prunes,  and  a  pint  of  drinkable  wine,  as  I  have  proved 
only  yesterday. 


20  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

After  two  such  banyan  days,  I  allowed  myself  a  little 
feasting ;  and  as  nobody  persisted  in  asking  me  to  dinner, 
I  went  off  to  the  Trois  Freres  by  myself,  and  dined  in 
that  excellent  company. 

I  would  recommend  a  man  who  is  going  to  dine  by  him- 
self here,  to  reflect  well  before  he  orders  soup  for  dinner. 

My  notion  is,  that  you  eat  as  much  after  soup  as  with- 
out it,  but  you  don't  eat  with  the  same  appetite. 

Especially  if  you  are  a  healthy  man,  as  I  am, — deuced 
hungry  at  five  o'clock.  My  appetite  runs  away  with  me ; 
and  if  I  order  soup  (which  is  always  enough  for  two),  I 
invariably  swallow  the  whole  of  it ;  and  the  greater  por- 
tion of  my  petit  pain,  too,  before  my  second  dish  arrives. 

The  best  part  of  a  pint  of  Julienne  or  puree  a  la  Con- 
de*,  is  very  well  for  a  man  who  has  only  one  dish  besides 
to  devour ;  but  not  for  you  and  me,  who  like  our  fish  and 
our  roti  of  game  or  meat  as  well. 

Oysters  you  may  eat.  They  do,  for  a  fact,  prepare  one 
to  go  through  the  rest  of  a  dinner  properly.  Lemon  and 
cayenne  pepper  is  the  word,  depend  on  it,  .and  a  glass  of 
white  wine  braces  you  up  for  what  is  to  follow. 

French  restaurateur  dinners  are  intended,  however,  for 
two  people,  at  least ;  still  better  for  three  ;  and  require  a 
good  deal  of  thought  before  you  can  arrange  them  for  one. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  recent  menu :  — 

Trois  Freres  Provenpeaux.  f.   o. 

Pain 0  25 

Beaune  premiere         .         .         .         .  30 

Puree  a  la  creci 0  75 

Turbot  aux  capres       .         .         .         .  1   75 

Quart  poulet  aux  truffes          .         .         .  2  25 

Champignons  a  la  Proven9ale      .         .  1  25 

Gelee  aux  pommes .         .         .        .         .  1  25 

Cognac 0  30 

10  80 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  21 

A  heavy  bill  for  a  single  man ;  and  a  heavy  dinner, 
too ;  for  I  have  said  before  I  have  a  great  appetite,  and 
when  a  thing  is  put  before  me  I  eat  it.  At  Brussels  I 
once  ate  fourteen  dishes;  and  have  seen  a  lady,  with 
whom  I  was  in  love,  at  the  table  of  a  German  grand 
duke,  eat  seventeen  dishes.  This  is  a  positive,  though 
disgusting  fact.  Up  to  the  first  twelve  dishes  she  had  a 
very  good  chance  of  becoming  Mrs.  Titmarsh,  but  I  have 
lost  sight  of  her  since. 

Well,  then,  I  say  to  you,  if  you  have  self-command 
enough  to  send  away  half  your  soup,  order  some ;  but 
you  are  a  poor  creature  if  you  do,  after  all.  If  you  are  a 
man,  and  have  not  that  self-command,  don't  have  any. 
The  Frenchmen  cannot  live  without  it,  but  I  say  to  you 
that  you  are  better  than  a  Frenchman.  I  would  lay  even 
money  that  you  who  are  reading  this  are  more  than  five 
feet  seven  in  height,  and  weigh  eleven  stone;  while  a 
Frenchman  is  five  feet  four  and  does  not  weigh  nine. 
The  Frenchman  has  after  his  soup  a  dish  of  vegetables, 
where  you  have  one  of  meat.  You  are  a  difijrent  and 
superior  animal,  —  a  French-beating  animal  (the  history 
of  hundreds  of  years  has  shown  you  to  be  so)  ;  you  must 
have  to  keep  up  that  superior  weight  and  sinew,  which  is 
the  secret  of  your  superiority,  —  as  for  public  institutions, 
bah !  —  you  must  have,  I  say,  simpler,  stronger,  succu- 
lenter  food. 

Eschew  the  soup,  then,  and  have  the  fish  up  at  once. 
It  is  the  best  to  begin  with  fish,  if  you  like  it,  as  every 
epicure  and  honest  man  should,  simply  boiled  or  fried  in 
the  English  fashion,  and  not  tortured  and  bullied  with 
oil,  onions,  wine,  and  herbs,  as  in  Paris  it  is  frequently 
done. 

Turbot  with  lobster-sauce  is  too  much;   turbot  a  la 


22  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

ffollandaise  vulgar;  sliced  potatoes  swimming  in  melted 
butter  are  a  mean  concomitant  for  a  noble,  simple,  liberal 
fish:  turbot  with  capers  is  the  thing.  The  brisk  little 
capers  relieve  the  dulness  of  the  turbot ;  the  melted  but- 
ter is  rich,  bland,  and  calm,  —  it  should  be,  that  is  to  say ; 
not  that  vapid,  watery  mixture  that  I  see  in  London ; 
not  oiled  butter,  as  the  Hollanders  have  it,  but  melted 
with  plenty  of  thickening  matter :  I  don't  know  how  to 
do  it,  but  I  know  it  when  it  is  good. 

They  melt  butter  well  at  the  Rocher  de  Caucale,  and 
at  the  Freres. 

Well,  this  turbot  was  very  good;  not  so  well,  of 
course,  as  one  gets  it  in  London,  and  dried  rather  in  the 
boiling ;  which  can't  be  helped,  unless  you  are  a  Lucul- 
lus  or  a  Camba^eres  of  a  man,  and  can  afford  to  order 
one  for  yourself.  This  grandeur  d'dme  is  very  rare  ;  my 
friend,  Tom  Willows,  is  almost  the  only  man  I  know 
who  possessed  it.  Yes,  *  *  *,  one  of  the  wittiest  men  in 
London,  I  once  knew  to  take  the  whole  interieur  of  a 
diligence  (six  places),  because  he  was  a  little  unwell. 
Ever  since  I  have  admired  that  man.  He  understands 
true  economy;  a  mean,  extravagant  man  would  have 
contented  himself  with  a  single  place,  and  been  unwell 
in  consequence.  How  I  am  rambling  from  my  subject, 
however.  The  fish  was  good,  and  I  ate  up  every  single 
scrap  of  it,  sucking  the  bones  and  fins  curiously.  That 
is  the  deuce  of  an  appetite,  it  must  be  satisfied ;  and  if 
you  were  to  put  a  roast  donkey  before  me,  with  the 
promise  of  a  haunch  of  venison  afterwards,  I  believe  I 
should  eat  the  greater  part  of  the  long-eared  animal. 

A  pint  of  puree  a  la  creci,  a  pain  de  gruau,  a  slice  of 
turbot,  —  a  man  should  think  about  ordering  his  bill,  for 
he  has  had  enough  dinner ;  but  no,  we  are  creatures  of 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  23 

superstition  and  habit,  and  must  have  one  regular  course 
of  meat.  Here  comes  the  poulet  a  la  Marengo :  I  hope 
they  've  given  me  the  wing. 

No  such  thing.  The' poulet  a  la  Marengo  aux  tniffes 
is  bad,  —  too  oily  by  far ;  the  truffles  are  not  of  this 
year  as  they  should  be,  for  there  are  cart-loads  in  town : 
they  are  poor  in  flavor,  and  have  only  been  cast  into  the 
dish  a  minute  before  it  was  brought  to  table,  and  what  is 
the  consequence  ?  They  do  not  flavor  the  meat  in  the 
least ;  some  faint  trufflesque  savor  you  may  get  as  you 
are  crunching  each  individual  root,  but  that  is  all,  and 
that  all  not  worth  the  having ;  for  as  nothing  is  finer  than 
a  good  truffle,  in  like  manner  nothing  is  meaner  than  a 
bad  one.  It  is  merely  pompous,  windy,  and  pretentious, 
like  those  scraps  of  philosophy  with  which  a  certain  emi- 
nent novelist  decks  out  his  meat. 

A  mushroom,  thought  I,  is  better  a  thousand  times 
than  these  tough,  flavorless  roots.  I  finished  every  one 
of  them,  however,  and  the  fine,  fat  capon's  thigh,  which 
they  surrounded.  It  was  a  disappointment  not  to  get  a 
wing,  to  be  sure.  They  always  give  me  legs ;  but  after 
all,  with  a  little  good-humor  and  philosophy,  a  leg  of  a 
fine  Mans  capon  may  be  found  very  acceptable.  How 
plump  and  tender  the  rogue's  thigh  is !  his  very  drum- 
stick is  as  fat  as  the  calf  of  a  London  footman ;  and  the 
sinews  which  puzzle  one  so  over  the  lean,  black  hen-legs 
in  London,  are  miraculously  whisked  away  from  the 
limb  before  me.  Look  at  it  now !  Half  a  dozen  cuts 
with  the  knife,  and  yonder  lies  the  bone,  —  white,  large, 
stark  naked,  without  a  morsel  of  flesh  left  upon  it,  soli- 
tary in  the  midst  of  a  pool  of  melted  butter. 

How  good  the  Burgundy  smacks  after  it !  I  always 
drink  Burgundy  at  this  house,  and  that  not  of  the  best 


24  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

It  is  my  firm  opinion  that  a  third-rate  Burgundy,  and  a 
third-rate  claret,  —  Beaune  and  Larose  for  instance,  are 
letter  than  the  best.  The  Bordeaux  enlivens,  the  Bur- 
gundy invigorates :  stronger  drink  only  inflames ;  and 
where  a  bottle  of  good  Beaune  only  causes  a  man  to  feel 
a  certain  manly  warmth  of  benevolence,  —  a  glow  some- 
thing like  that  produced  by  sunshine  and  gentle  exercise, 
—  a  bottle  of  Chambertin  will  set  all  your  frame  in  a, 
fever,  swells  the  extremities,  and  causes  the  pulses  to 
throb.  Chambertin  should  never  be  handed  round  more 
than  twice ;  and  I  recollect  to  this  moment  the  headache 
I  had  after  drinking  a  bottle  and  a  half  of  Romanee- 
Gelee,  for  which  this  house  is  famous.  Somebody  else 
paid  for  the  —  (no  other  than  you,  O  Gustavus !  with 
whom  I  hope  to  have  many  a  tall  dinner  on  the  same 
charges)  —  but  't  was  in  our  hot  youth,  ere  experience 
had  taught  us  that  moderation  was  happiness,  and  had 
shown  us  that  it  is  absurd  to  be  guzzling  wine  at  fifteen 
francs  a  bottle. 

By  the  way,  I  may  here  mention  a  story  relating  to 
some  of  Blackwood's  men,  who  dined  at  this  very  house. 
Fancy  the  fellows  trying  claret,  which  they  voted  sour ; 
then  Burgundy,  at  which  they  made  wry  faces,  and  fin- 
ished the  evening  with  brandy  and  lunel!  This  is  what 
men  call  eating  a  French  dinner.  Willows  and  I  dined 
at  the  Rocher,  and  an  English  family  there  feeding  or- 
dered —  mutton-chops  and  potatoes.  Why  not,  in  these 
cases,  stay  at  home  ?  Chops  is  better  chops  in  England 
(the  best  chops  in  the  world  are  to  be  had  at  the  Reform 
Club)  than  in  France.  What  would  literary  men  mean 
by  ordering  lunel  ?  I  always  rather  liked  the  descrip- 
tions of  eating  in  the  Nodes.  They  were  gross  in  all 
cases,  absurdly  erroneous,  in  many ;  but  there  was  a 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  25 

manliness  about  them,  and  strong  evidence  of  a  great, 
though  misdirected  and  uneducated,  genius  for  victuals. 

Mushrooms,  thought  I,  are  better  than  these  tasteless 
truffles,  and  so  ordered  a  dish  to  try.  You  know  what  a 
Provengale  sauce  is,  I  have  no  doubt  ?  —  a  rich,  savory 
mixture,  of  garlic  and  oil ;  which,  with  a  little  cayenne 
pepper  and  salt,  impart  a  pleasant  taste  to  the  plump 
little  mushrooms,  that  can't  be  described  but  may  be 
thought  of  with  pleasure. 

The  only  point  was,  how  will  they  agree  with  me  to- 
morrow morning?  for  the  fact  is,  I  had  eaten  an  im- 
mense quantity  of  them,  and  began  to  be  afraid !  Sup- 
pose we  go  and  have  a  glass  of  punch  and  a  cigar  ?  O, 
glorious  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal !  your  trees  are  leaf- 
less now,  but  what  matters  ?  Your  alleys  are  damp,  ,but 
what  of  that  ?  All  the  windows  are  blazing  with  light 
and  merriment ;  at  least  two  thousand  happy  people  are 
pacing  up  and  down  the  colonnades;  cheerful  sounds  of 
money  chinking  are  heard  as  you  pass  the  changers* 
shops;  bustling  shouts  of  gargon,  and  Via  monsieur! 
come  from  the  swinging  doors  of  the  restaurateurs. 
Look  at  that  group  of  soldiers  gaping  at  Vefour's  win- 
dow, where  lie  lobsters,  pine-apples,  fat  truffle-stuffed 
partridges,  which  make  me  almost  hungry  again.  I  won- 
der whether  those  three  fellows  with  mustachios  and  a 
toothpick  apiece  have  had  a  dinner,  or  only  a  toothpick. 
When  the  Trois  Freres  used  to  be  on  the  first  floor,  and 
had  a  door  leading  into  the  Rue  de  Valois,  as  well  as  one 
into  the  garden,  I  recollect  seeing  three  men  with  tooth- 
picks mount  the  stair  from  the  street,  descend  the  stair 
into  the  garden,  and  give  themselves  as  great  airs  as  if 
they  had  dined  for  a  napoleon  a  head.  The  rogues  are 
lucky  if  they  have  had  a  sixteen  sous  dinner ;  and  the 

* 


26  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

next  time  I  dine  abroad,  I  am  resolved  to  have  one  my- 
self. I  never  understood  why  Gil  Bias  grew  so  mighty 
squeamish  in  the  affair  of  the  cat  and  the  hare.  Hare  is 
best,  but  why  should  not  cat  be  good  ? 

Being  on  the  subject  of  bad  dinners,  I  may  as  well 
ease  my  mind  of  one  that  occurred  to  me  some  few  days 
back.  When  walking  in  the  Boulevard,  I  met  my  friend, 
Captain  Hopkinson,  of  the  half-pay,  looking  very  hungry, 
and  indeed  going  to  dine.  In  most  cases  one  respects  the 
dictum  of  a  half-pay  officer  regarding  a  dining-house. 
He  knows  as  a  general  rule  where  the  fat  of  the  land  lies, 
and  how  to  take  his  share  of  that  fat  in  the  most  economi- 
cal manner. 

"  I  tell  you  what  I  do,"  says  Hopkinson  ;  "  I  allow  my- 
self fifteen  franc  a  week  for  dinner  (I  count  upon  being 
asked  out  twice  a  week),  and  so  have  a  three-franc  dinner 
at  Richard's,  where,  for  the  extra  franc,  they  give  me  an 
excellent  bottle  of  wine,  and  make  me  comfortable." 

"  Why  should  n't  they  ?  "  I  thought.  "  Here  is  a  man 
who  has  served  his  king  and  country,  and  no  doubt  knows 
a  thing  when  he  sees  it."  We  made  a  party  of  four, 
therefore,  and  went  to  the  captain's  place  to  dine. 

We  had  a  private  room  au  second;  a  very  damp  and 
dirty  private  room,  with  a  faint  odor  of  stale  punch,  and 
dingy  glasses  round  the  walls. 

We  had  a  soup  of  puree  aux  crouton ;  a  very  dingy, 
dubious  soup,  indeed ;  thickened,  I  fancy,  with  brown 
paper,  and  flavored  with  the  same. 

At  the  end  of  the  soup  Monsieur  Landlord  came  up 
stairs  very  kindly,  and  gave  us  each  a  pinch  of  snuff  out 
of  a  gold  snuff-box. 

We  had  four  portions  of  anguille  &  la  tartare,  very  good 
and  fresh  (it  is  best  in  these  places  to  eat  fresh-water 


MEMOEIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  27 

fish).  Each  portion  was  half  the  length  of  a  man's  finger. 
Dish  one  was  despatched  in  no  time,  and  we  began  drink- 
ing the  famous  wine  that  our  guide  recommended.  I 
have  cut  him  ever  since.  It  was  four-sous  wine,  —  weak, 
vapid,  watery  stuff,  of  the  most  unsatisfactory  nature. 

We  had  four  portions  of  gigot  aux  haricots,  —  four  flaps 
of  bleeding,  tough  meat,  cut  unnaturally  (that  is,  with  the 
grain :  the  French  gash  the  meat  in  parallel  lines  with 
the  bone).  We  ate  these  up  as  we  might,  and  the  land- 
lord was  so  good  as  to  come  up  again  and  favor  us  with  a 
pinch  from  his  gold  box. 

With  wonderful  unanimity,  as  we  were  told  the  place 
was  famous  for  civet  de  lievre,  we  ordered  civet  de  lievre 
for  four. 

It  came  up,  but  we  could  n't,  —  really  we  could  n't. 
We  were  obliged  to  have  extra  dishes,  and  pay  extra. 
Gustavus  had  a  mayonnaise  of  crayfish,  and  half  a  fowl; 
I  fell  to  work  upon  my  cheese  as  usual,  and  availed  my- 
self of  the  discretionary  bread.  We  went  away  disgusted, 
wretched,  unhappy.  We  had  had  for  our  three  francs  bad 
bread,  bad  meat,  bad  wine.  And  there  stood  the  landlord 
at  the  door  (and  be  hanged  to  him !)  grinning  and  offer- 
ing his  box. 

We  don't  speak  to  Hopkinson  any  more  now  when  we 
meet  him.  How  can  you  trust  or  be  friendly  with  a  man 
who  deceives  you  in  this  miserable  way  ? 

What  is  the  moral  to  be  drawn  from  this  dinner  ?  It 
is  evident.  Avoid  pretence  ;  mistrust  shabby  elegance  ; 
cut  your  coat  according  to  your  cloth ;  if  you  have  but  a 
few  shillings  in  your  pocket,  aim  only  at  those  humble 
and  honest  meats  which  your  small  store  will  purchase. 
At  the  Cafe  Foy,  for  the  same  money,  I  might  have 
had 


28  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

f:    s. 

A  delicious  entrecote  and  potatoes .  .  .15 
A  pint  of  excellent  wine  .  .  .  .  015 
A  little  bread  (meaning  a  good  deal)  .  .05 
A  dish  of  stewed  kidneys  .  .  .  .  10 

F~0 
Or  at  Paolo's. 

A  bread  (as  before) 05 

A  heap  of  macaroni,  or  ravioli    .         .        .         015 

A  Milanese  cutlet 10 

A  pint  of  wine 0  10 

And  ten  sous  for  any  other  luxury  your  imagination 
could  suggest.  The  ravioli  and  the  cutlets  are  admira- 
bly dressed  at  Paolo's.  Does  any  healthy  man  need 
more? 

These  dinners,  I  am  perfectly  aware,  are  by  no  means 
splendid ;  and  I  might,  with  the  most  perfect  ease,  write 
you  out  a  dozen  bills  of  fare,  each  more  splendid  and 
piquant  than  the  other,  in  which  all  the  luxuries  of  the 
season  should  figure.  But  the  remarks  here  set  down 
are  the  result  of  experience,  not  fancy,  and  intended  only 
for  persons  in  the  middling  classes  of  life.  Very  few  men 
can  afford  to  pay  more  than  five  francs  daily  for  dinner. 
Let  us  calmly,  then,  consider  what  enjoyment  may  be  had 
for  those  five  francs ;  how,  by  economy  on  one  day,  we 
may  venture  upon  luxury  the  next ;  how,  by  a  little  fore- 
thought and  care,  we  may  be  happy  on  all  days.  Who 
knew  and  studied  this  cheap  philosophy  of  life  better  than 
old  Horace,  before  quoted  ?  Sometimes  (when  in  luck) 
he  cherupped  over  cups  that  were  fit  for  an  archbishop's 
supper ;  sometimes  he  philosophized  over  his  own  ordi- 
naire at  his  own  farm.  How  affecting  is  the  last  ode  of 
the  first  book :  — 


MEMOKIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  29 

TO   HIS   SERVING-BOY. 

Persicos  odi, 

Puer,  apparatus;  « 

Displicent  nexss 

Philyra  coronse : 

Mitte  sectari 

Eosa  quo  locorum 

Sera  moretur. 

Simplici  myrto 
Nihil  allabores 
Sedulus  curte : 
Neque  te  ministrum 
Dedecet  myrtus, 
Neque  me  sub  arcta 
Vite  bibentem. 

AD  MINISTRAM. 

Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is,— 

I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss : 
Your  silly  entries  and  made  dishes 

Were  never  intended  for  us. 
No  footman  in  lace  and  in  ruffles 

Need  dangle  behind  my  arm-chair; 
And  never  mind  seeking  for  truffles, 

Although  they  be  ever  so  rare. 

But  a  plain  leg  of  mutton,  my  Lucy, 

I  pr'ythee  get  ready  at  three : 
Have  it  smoking,  and  tender,  and  juicy, 

And  what  better  meat  can  there  beV 
And  when  it  has  feasted  the  master, 

'T  will  amply  suffice  for  the  maid; 
Meanwhile  I  will  smoke  my  canaster, 

And  tipple  my  ale  in  the  shade. 

Not  that  this  is  the  truth  entirely  and  forever.  -  Ho- 
ratius  Flaccus  was  too  wise  to  dislike  a  good  thing ;  but 
it  is  possible  that  the  Persian  apparatus  was  on  that  day 
beyond  his  means,  and  so  he  contented  himself  with  hu.m- 
ble  fare. 


30  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

A  gentleman,  by  the  by,  has  just  come  to  Paris,  to 
whom  I  am  very  kind ;  and  who  will,  in  all  human  prob- 
ability, between  this  and  next  month,  ask  me  to  a  dinner 
at  the  Rocher  de  Caucale.  If  so,  something  may  occur 
worth  writing  about ;  or  if  you  are  anxious  to  hear  more 
on  the  subject,  send  me  over  a  sum  to  my  address,  to  be 
laid  out  for  you  exclusively  in  eating.  I  give  you  my 
honor  I  will  do  you  justice,  and  account  for  every  farthing 
of  it. 

One  of  the  most  absurd  customs  at  present  in  use  is 
that  of  giving  your  friend,  —  when  some  piece  of  good 
luck  happens  to  him,  such  as  an  appointment  as  Chief 
Judge  of  Owhyhee,  or  King's  Advocate  to  Timbuctoo,  — 
of  giving  your  friend,  because,  forsooth,  he  may  have 
been  suddenly  elevated  from  £  200  a-year  to  £  2,000,  an 
enormous  dinner  of  congratulation. 

Last  year,  for  instance,  when  our  friend,  Fred  Jowling, 
got  his  place  of  Commissioner  at  Quashumaboo,  it  was 
considered  absolutely  necessary  to  give  the  man  a  dinner, 
and  some  score  of  us  had  to  pay  about  fifty  shillings 
a-piece  for  the  purpose.  I  had,  so  help  me,  Moses !  but 
three  guineas  in  the  world  at  that  period ;  and  out  of  this 
sum  the  bienseances  compelled  me  to  sacrifice  five  sixths, 
to  feast  myself  in  company  of  a  man  gorged  with  wealth, 
rattling  sovereigns  in  his  pocket  as  if  they  had  been  so 
much  dross,  and  capable  of  treating  us  all  without  missing 
the  sum  he  might  expend  on  us. 

Jow  himself  allowed,  as  I  represented  the  case  to  him, 
that  the  arrangement  was  very  hard;  but  represented, 
fairly  enough,  that  this  was  one  of  the  sacrifices  that  a 
man  of  the  world,  from  time  to  time,  is  called  to  make. 
"  You,  my  dear  Titmarsh,"  said  he,  know  very  well  that 
I  don't  care  for  these  grand  entertainments  "  (the  rogue, 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  31 

he  is  a  five-bottle  man,  and  just  the  most  finished  gourmet 
of  my  acquaintance !)  ;  "  you  know  that  I  am  perfectly 
convinced  of  your  friendship  for  me,  though  you  join  in 
the  dinner  or  not,  but,  —  it  would  look  rather  queer  if  you 
backed  out,  —  it  would  look  rather  queer?  Jow  said  this 
in  such  an  emphatic  way,  that  I  saw  I  must  lay  down  my 
money ;  and  accordingly  Mr.  Lovegrove  of  Blackwall,  for 
a  certain  quantity  of  iced  punch,  champagne,  cider  cup, 
fish,  flesh,  and  fowl,  received  the  last  of  my  sovereigns. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  Bolter  got  a  place  too,  — 
Judge- Advocate  in  the  Topinambo  Islands,  of  £3,000 
a-year,  which  he  said  was  a  poor  remuneration  in  consid- 
eration of  the  practice  which  he  gave  up  in  town.  He 
may  have  practised  on  his  laundress,  but  for  anything 
else  I  believe  the  man  never  had  a  client  in  his  life. 

However,  on  his  way  to  Topinambo  —  by  Marseilles, 
Egypt,  the  Desert,  the  Persian  Gulf,  and  so  on  —  Bolter 
arrived  in  Paris ;  and  I  saw  from  his  appearance,  and  the 
manner  of  shaking  hands  with  me,  and  the  peculiar  way 
in  which  he  talked  about  the  Rocher  de  Caucale,  that  he 
expected  we  were  to  give  him  a  dinner,  as  we  had  to 
Jowling. 

There  were  four  friends  of  Bolter's  in  the  capital  be- 
sides myself,  and  among  us  the  dinner-question  was 
mooted  :  we  agreed  that  it  should  be  a  simple  dinner  of 
ten  francs  a  head,  and  this  was  the  bill  of  fare :  — 

1.  Oysters  (common),  nice. 

2.  Oysters,  green  of  Marenne  (very  good). 
8.  Potage,  puree  de  gibier  (very  fair). 

As  we  were  English,  they  instantly  then  served  us,  — 

4.  Sole  en  matelotte  Normande  (comme  9a). 

5.  Turbot  a  la  creme  au  gratin  (excellent). 

6.  Jardiniere  cutlets  (particularly  seedy). 


32  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

7.  Poulet  k  la  Marengo  (very  fair,  but  why  the  deuce  is 
one  always  to  be  pestered  by  it  ?). 

I  (Entrees  of  some  kind,  but  a  blank  in  my  memory). 

10.  A  r6t  of  chevreuil. 

11.  Ditto  of  eperlans  (very  hot,  crisp,  and  nice). 

12.  Ditto  of  partridges  (quite  good  and  plump). 

13.  Pointes  d'asperges. 

14.  Champignons  k  la  Proveneale  (the  most  delicious  mush- 
rooms I  ever  tasted). 

15.  Pine-apple  jelly. 

16.  Blanc,  or  red  mange. 

1 7.  Pencacks.     Let  everybody  who  goes  to  the  Rocher  or- 
der these  pancakes ;  they  are  arranged  with  jelly  inside,  rolled 
up  between  various  couches  of  vermicilli,  flavored  with  a  leetle 
wine  ;  and,  by  everything  sacred,  the  most  delightful  meat  pos- 
sible. 

18.  Timballe  of  macaroni. 

The  jellies  and  sucreries  should  have  been  mentioned 
in  the  dessert,  and  there  were  numberless  plates  of  trifles, 
which  made  the  table  look  very  pretty,  but  need  not  be 
mentioned  here. 

The  dinner  was  not  a  fine  one,  as  you  see.  No  rari- 
ties, no  troufles  even,  no  mets  de  primeur,  though  there 
were  peas  and  asparagus  in  the  market  at  a  pretty  fair 
price.  But  with  rarities  no  man  has  any  business  except 
he  have  a  colossal  fortune.  Hot-house  strawberries,  as- 
paragus, &c.,  are,  as  far  as  my  experience  goes,  most  fade, 
mean,  and  tasteless  meats.  Much  better  to  have  a  simple 
dinner  of  twenty  dishes,  and  content  therewith,  than  to 
look  for  impossible  splendors  and  Apician  morsels. 

In  respect  of  wine.  Let  those  who  go  to  the  Rocher 
take  my  advice  and  order  Madeira.  They  have  here 
some  pale  old  East  India  very  good.  How  they  got  it  is 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  33 

a  secret,  for  the  Parisians  do  not  know  good  Madeira 
when  they  see  it.  Some  very  fair  strong  young  wine 
may  be  had  at  the  Hotel  des  Americains,  in  the  Rue  St. 
Honors' ;  as,  indeed,  all  West  India  produce,  —  pine-apple 
rum,  for  instance.  I  may  say,  with  confidence,  that  I 
never  knew  what  rum  was  until  I  tasted  this  at  Paris. 

But  to  the  Rocher.  The  Madeira  was  the  best  wine 
served ;  though  some  Burgundy,  handed  round  in  the 
course  of  dinner,  and  a  bottle  of  Montrachet,  similarly 
poured  out  to  us,  were  very  fair.  The  champagne  was 
decidedly  not  good,  —  poor,  inflated,  thin  stuff.  They  say 
the  drink  we  swallow  in  England  is  not  genuine  wine,  but 
brandy-loaded  and  otherwise  doctored  for  the  English 
market ;  but,  ah,  what  superior  wine  !  Au  reste,  the 
French  will  not  generally  pay  the  money  for  the  wine  ; 
and  it  therefore  is  carried  from  an  ungrateful  country  to 
more  generous  climes,  where  it  is  better  appreciated.  We 
had  claret  and  speeches  after  dinner ;  and  very  possibly 
some  of  the  persons  present  made  free  with  a  jug  of  hot 
water,  a  few  lumps  of  sugar,  and  the  horrid  addition  of  a 
glass  of  cognac.  There  can  be  no  worse  practice  than 
this.  After  a  dinner  of  eighteen  dishes,  in  which  you 
have  drunk  at  least  thirty-six  glasses  of  wine,  —  when  the 
stomach  is  full,  the  brain  heavy,  the  hands  and  feet  in- 
flamed, —  when  the  claret  begins  to  pall,  —  you,  forsooth, 
must  gorge  yourself  with  brandy-and-water,  and  puff  filthy 
cigars.  For  shame  !  Who  ever  does  it  ?  Does  a  gen- 
tleman drink  brandy-and-water  ?  Does  a  man  who  mixes 
in  the  society  of  the  loveliest  half  of  humanity  befoul  him- 
self by  tobacco  smoke  ?  Fie,  fie  !  avoid  the  practice.  I 
indulge  in  it  always  myself ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why 
you,  a  young  man  entering  into  the  world,  should  degrade 
yourself  in  any  such  way.  No,  no,  my  dear  lad,  never 
2*  c 


34  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

refuse  t  an  evening  party,  and  avoid  tobacco  as  you  would 
the  upas  plant. 

'By  the  way,  not  having  my  purse  about  me  when  the 
above  dinner  was  given,  I  was  constrained  to  borrow  from 
Bolter,  whom  I  knew  more  intimately  than  the  rest ;  and 
nothing  grieved  me  more  than  to  find,  on  calling  at  his 
hotel  four  days  afterwards,  that  he  had  set  off  by  the  mail 
post  for  Marseilles.  Friend  of  my  youth,  dear,  dear  Bol- 
ton  !  if  haply  this  trifling  page  should  come  before  thine 
eyes,  weary  of  perusing  the  sacred  rolls  of  Themis  in  thy 
far-off  island  in  the  Indian  Sea,  thou  wilt  recall  our  little 
dinner  in  the  little  room  of  the  Cancalian  Coffee-House, 
and  think  for  a  while  of  thy  friend  ! 

Let  us  now  mention  one  or  two  places  that  the  Briton, 
on  his  arrival  here,  should  frequent  or  avoid.  As  a  quiet, 
dear  house,  where  there  are  some  of  the  best  rooms  in 
Paris  —  always  the  best  meat,  fowls,  vegetables,  &c.  -*-  we 
may  specially  recommend  Monsieur  Voisin's  cafe",  oppo- 
site the  church  of  the  Assumption.  A  very  decent  and 
lively  house  of  restauration  is  that  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  du  Faubourg  Montmartre,  on  the  Boulevard.  I 
never  yet  had  a  good  dinner  in  my  life  at  Vefour's  ;  some- 
thing is  always  manque  at  the  place.  The  Grand  Vattel 
is  worthy  of  note,  as  cheap,  pretty,  and  quiet.  All  the 
English  houses  gentlemen  may  frequent  who  are  so  in- 
clined ;  but  though  the  writer  of  this  has  many  times 
dined  for  sixteen  sous  at  Catcomb's,  cheek  by  jowl  with  a 
French  chasseur  or  a  laborer,  he  has,  he  confesses,  an  an- 
tipathy to  enter  into  the  confidence  of  a  footman  or  groom 
of  his  own  country. 

A  gentleman  who  purchases  pictures  in  this  town  was 
lately  waited  upon  by  a  lady,  who  said  she  had  in  her 
possession  one  of  the  greatest  rarities  in  the  world,  —  a 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  35 

picture,  admirable,  too,  as  a  work  of  art,  —  no  less  than 
an  original  portrait  of  Shakespeare,  by  his  comrade,  the 
famous  John  Davis.  The  gentleman  rushed  off  imme'di- 
ately  to  behold  the  wonder,  and  saw  a  head,  rudely  but 
vigorously  painted  on  panel,  about  twice  the  size  of  life, 
with  a  couple  of  hooks  drawn  through  the  top  part  of  the 
board,  under  which  was  written, 

THE    WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE, 
BY   JOHN   DAVIS. 

"  Voyez  vous,  Monsieur,"  said  the  lady ;  "  il  n'y  a  plus 
de  doute.  Le  portrait  de  Shakespeare  du  celebre  Davis, 
et  signe  meme  de  lui ! " 

I  remember  it  used  to  hang  up  in  a  silent  little  street 
in  the  Latin  quarter,  near  an  old  convent,  before  a  quaint 
old  quiet  tavern  that  I  loved.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  the 
old  name  written  up  in  a  strange  land,  and  the  well- 
known  friendly  face  greeting  one.  There  was  a  quiet 
little  garden  at  the  back  of  the  tavern,  and  famous  good 
roast-beef,  clean  rooms,  and  English  beer.  Where  are 
you  now,  John  Davis  ?  Could  not  the  image  of  thy  au- 
gust patron  preserve  thy  house  from  ruin,  or  rally  the 
faithful  around  it  ?  Are  you  unfortunate,  Davis  ?  Are 
you  a  bankrupt  ?  Let  us  hope  not.  I  swear  to  thee, 
that  when,  one  sunny  afternoon,  I  first  saw  the  ensign  of 
thy  tavern,  I  loved  thee  for  the  choice,  and  douced  my 
cap  on  entering  the  porch,  and  looked  around,  and  thought 
all  friends  were  here. 

In  the  queer  old  pleasant  novel  of  the  Spiritual  Quix- 
ote, honest  Tugwell,  the  Sancho  of  the  story,  relates  a 
Warwickshire  legend,  which  at  the  time  Graves  wrote 
was  not  much  more  than  a  hundred  years  old ;  and  by 
which  it  appears  that  the  owner  of  New  Place  was  a 


36  MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

• 

famous  jesting  gentleman,  and  used  to  sit  at  his  gate  of 
summer  evenings,  cutting  the  queerest,  merriest  jokes 
with  all  the  passers-by.  I  have  heard  from  a  Warwick- 
shire clergyman  that  the  legend  still  exists  in  the  coun- 
try ;  and  Ward's  Diary  says,  that  Master  Shakespeare 
died  of  a  surfeit,  brought  on  by  carousing  with  a  literary 
friend  who  had  come  to  visit  him  from  London.  And 
wherefore  not  ?  Better  to  die  of  good  wine  and  good 
company  than  of  slow  disease  and  doctor's  doses.  Some 
geniuses  live  on  sour  misanthropy,  and  some  on  meek 
milk-and-water.  Let  us  not  deal  too  hardly  with  those 
that  are  of  a  jovial  sort,  and  indulge  in  the  decent  prac- 
tice of  the  cup  and  the  platter. 

A  word  or  two,  by  way  of  conclusion,  may  be  said 
about  the  numerous  pleasant  villages  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Paris,  or  rather  of  the  eating  and  drinking  to  be  found 
in  the  taverns  of  those  suburban  spots.  At  Versailles, 
Monsieur  Duboux,  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs,  has  a 
good  cook  and  cellars,  and  will  gratify  you  with  a  heavier 
bill  than  is  paid  at  Verey's  and  the  Rocher.  On  the 
beautiful  terrace  of  Saint  Germain,  looking  over  miles  of 
river  and  vineyard,  of  fair  villages  basking  in  the  mead- 
ows, and.great  tall  trees  stretching  wide  round  about ;  you 
may  sit  in  the  open  air  of  summer  evenings  and  see  the 
white  spires  of  Saint  Denis  rising  in  the  distance,  and  the 
gray  arches  of  Marly  to  the  right,  and  before  you  the 
city  of  Paris  with  innumerable  domes  and  towers. 

Watching  these  objects,  and  the  setting  sun  gorgeously 
illumining  the  heavens  and  them,  you  may  have  an  ex- 
cellent dinner  served  to  you  by  the  chef  of  Messire  Gal- 
lois,  who  at  present  owns  the  pavilion  where  Louis  XIV. 
was  born.  The  maitre  d'hotel  is  from  the  Rocher,  and 
told  us  that  he  came  out  to  St.  Germain  for  the  sake  of 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  37 

the  air.  The  only  drawback  to  the  entertainment  is,  that 
the  charges  are  as  atrociously  high  in  price  as  the  dishes 
provided  are  small  in  quantity  ;  and  dining  at  this  pavil- 
ion on  the  loth  of  April,  at  a  period  when  a  botte  of  as- 
paragus at  Paris  cost  only  three  francs,  the  writer  of  this 
and  a  chosen  associate  had  to  pay  seven  francs  for  about 
the  third  part  of  a  botte  of  asparagus,  served  up  to  them 
by  Messire  Gallois. 

Facts  like  these  ought  not  to  go  unnoticed.  Therefore, 
let  the  readers  of  Fraser's  Magazine  who  propose  a  visit 
to  Paris,  take  warning  by  the  unhappy  fate  of  the  person 
now  addressing  them,  and  avoid  the  place  or  not,  as  they 
think  fit.  A  bad  dinner  does  no  harm  to  any  human 
soul,  and  the  philosopher  partakes  of  such  with  easy  res- 
ignation ;  but  a  bad  and  dear  dinner  is  enough  to  raise 
the  anger  of  any  man,  however  naturally  sweet-tempered, 
and  he  is  bound  to  warn  his  acquaintance  of  it. 

With  one  parting  syllable  in  praise  of  the  Marroniers 
at  Bercy,  where  you  get  capital  eels,  fried  gudgeons  fresh 
from  the  Seine,  and  excellent  wine  of  the  ordinary  kind, 
this  discourse  is  here  closed.  "  En  telle  ou  meilleure 
pensee,  Beuueurs  ires  illustres  (car  a  vous  non  a  aultres 
sont  dedies  ces  escriptz)  reconfortez  vostre  malheur,  et 
beuuez  fraiz  si  fair e  se  peult." 


MEN    AND    COATS. 

HERE  is  some  peculiar  influence,  which  no 
doubt  the  reader  has  remarked  in  his  own 
case,  for  it  has  been  sung  by  ten  thousand 
poets,  or  versifying  persons,  whose  ideas  you 
adopt,  if  perchance,  as  is  barely  possible,  you  have  none 
of  your  own,  —  there  is,  I  say,  a  certain  balmy  influence 
in  the  spring-time,  which  brings  a  rush  of  fresh  dancing 
blood  into  the  veins  of  all  nature,  and  causes  it  to  wear  a 
peculiarly  festive  and  sporting  look.  Look  at  the  old  Sun, 
—  how  pale  he  was  all  the  winter  through  !  Some  days 
he  was  so  cold  and  wretched  he  would  not  come  out  at 
all,  —  he  would  not  leave  his  bed  till  eight  o'clock,  and 
retired  to  rest,  the  old  sluggard  !  at  four ;  but,  lo !  comes 
May,  and  he  is  up  at  five,  —  he  feels,  like  the  rest  of  Us, 
the  delicious  vernal  influence  ;  he  is  always  walking 
abroad  in  the  fresh  air,  and  his  jolly  face  lights  up  anew ! 
Remark  the  trees  ;  they  have  dragged  through  the  shiv- 
ering winter  time  without  so  much  as  a  rag  to  cover  them, 
but  about  May  they  feel  obligated  to  follow  the  mode,  and 
come  out  in  a  new  suit  of  green.  The  meadows,  in  like 
manner,  appear  invested  with  a  variety  of  pretty  spring 
fashions,  not  only  covering  their  backs  with  a  bran-new, 
glossy  suit,  but  sporting  a  world  of  little  coquettish,  orna- 
mental gimcracks  that  are  suited  to  the  season.  This  one 


MEN  AND  COATS.  39 

covers  his  robe  with  the  most  delicate  twinkling  white 
daisies ;  that  tricks  himself  out  with  numberless  golden 
cowslips,  or  decorates  his  bosom  with  a  bunch  of  dusky 
violets.  Birds  sing  and  make  love  ;  bees  wake  and  make 
honey  ;  horses  and  men  leave  off  their  shaggy  winter 
clothing  and  turn  out  in  fresh  coats.  The  only  animal 
that  does  not  feel  the  power  of  spring,  is  that  selfish, 
silent,  and  cold-blooded  beast,  the  oyster,  who  shuts  him- 
self up  for.  the  best  months  of  the  year,  and  with  whom 
the  climate  disagrees. 

Some  people  have  wondered  how  it  is  that  what  is 
called  "  the  season  "  in  London  should  not  begin  until 
spring.  What  an  absurd  subject  for  wondering  at !  How 
could  the  London  season  begin  at  any  other  time  ?  How 
could  the  great,  black,  bilious,  overgrown  city,  stifled  by 
gas,  and  fogs,  and  politics,  ever  hope  to  have  a  season  at 
all,  unless  nature  with  a  violent  effort  came  to  its  aid 
about  Easter  time,  and  infused  into  it  a  little  spring 
blood  ?  The  town  of  London  feels  then  the  influences  of 
the  spring,  and  salutes  it  after  its  fashion.  The  parks  are 
green  for  about  a  couple  of  months.  Lady  Smigsmag, 
and  other  leaders  of  the  ton,  give  their  series  of  grand 
parties ;  Gunter  and  Grange  come  forward  with  iced- 
creams  and  champagnes ;  ducks  and  green-pease  burst  out ; 
the  river  Thames  blossoms  with  whitebait ;  and  Alder- 
man Birch  announces  the  arrival  of  fresh,  lively  turtle. 
If  there  are  no  birds  to  sing  and  make  love,  as  in  coun- 
try places,  at  least  there  are  coveys  of  opera  girls  that 
frisk  and  hop  about  airily,  and  Rubini  and  Lablache  to 
act  as  a  couple  of  nightingales.  "  A  lady  of  fashion  re- 
marked," says  Dyson,  in  the  Morning  Post,  "  that  for  all 
persons  pretending  to  hold  a  position  in  genteel  society," 
—  I  forget  the  exact  words,  but  the  sense  of  them  remains 


40  MEN  AND   COATS. 

indelibly  engraven  upon  my  mind,  —  "  for  any  one  pre- 
tending to  take  a  place  in  genteel  society  two  things  are 
indispensable.  And  what  are  these  ?  —  a  BOUQUET  AND 

AN    EMBROIDERED    POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF."      This  is  a 

self-evident  truth.  Dyson  does  not  furnish  the  bouquets, 
—  he  is  not  a  market-gardener,  —  he  is  not  the  goddess 
Flora ;  but,  a  town-man,  he  knows  what  the  season  re- 
quires, and  furnishes  his  contribution  to  it.  The  lilies  of 
the  field  are  not  more  white  and  graceful  than  his  em- 
broidered nose  ornaments,  and  with  a  little  eau  des  cent- 
milles  fleurs,  not  more  fragrant.  Dyson  knows  that 
pocket-handkerchiefs  are  necessary,  and  has  "  an  express 
from  Longchamps  "  to  bring  them  over. 

Whether  they  are  picked  from  ladies'  pockets  by  Dy- 
son's couriers,  who  then  hurry  breathless  across  the  Chan- 
nel with  them,  no  one  need  ask.  But  the  gist  of  Dyson's 
advertisement,  and  of  all  the  preceding  remarks,  is  this 
great  truth,  which  need  not  be  carried  out  further  by  any 
illustrations  from  geography  or  natural  history,  —  that  in 
the  spring-time  all  nature  renews  itself.  There  is  not  a 
country  newspaper  published  in  England  that  does  not 
proclaim  the  same  fact.  Madame  Hoggin  informs  the  no- 
bility and  gentry  of  Penzance  that  her  new  and  gigantic 
stock  of  Parisian  fashions  has  just  arrived  from  London. 
Mademoiselle  M'Whirter  begs  to  announce  to  the  haul- 
ton  in  the  environs  of  John-o'- Groats  that  she  has  this  in- 
stant returned  from  Paris,  with  her  dazzling  and  beautiful 
collection  of  spring  fashions. 

In  common  with  the  birds,  the  trees,  the  meadows,  — 
in  common  with  the  Sun,  with  Dyson,  with  all  nature,  in 
fact,  I  yielded  to  the  irresistible  spring  impulse,  —  homo 
sum,  nihil  humani  a  me  alienum,  &c.,  —  I  acknowledged 
the  influence  of  the  season,  and  ordered  a  new  coat,  waist- 


MEN  AND  COATS.  41 

coat  and  tr in  short,  a  new  suit.     Now,  having  worn 

it  for  a  few  days,  and  studied  the  effect  which  it  has  upon 
the  wearer,  I  thought  that  perhaps  an  essay  upon  new 
clothes  and  their  influence  might  be  attended  with  some 
profit  both  to  the  public  and  the  writer. 

One  thing  is  certain.  A  man  does  not  have  a  new  suit 
of  clothes  every  day;  and  another  general  proposition 
may  be  advanced,  that  a  man  in  sporting  a  coat  for  the 
first  time  is  either 

agreeably  affected,  or 
disagreeably  affected,  or 
not  affected  at  all,  — 

which  latter  case  I  don't  believe.  There  is  no  man,  how- 
ever accustomed  to  new  clothes,  but  must  feel  some  senti- 
ment of  pride  in  assuming  them,  —  no  philosopher,  how- 
ever calm,  but  must  remark  the  change  of  raiment.  Men 
consent  to  wear  old  clothes  forever,  —  nay,  feel  a  pang  at 
parting  with  them  for  new ;  but  the  first  appearance  of  a 
new  garment  is  always  attended  with  exultation. 

Even  the  feeling  of  shyness,  which  makes  a  man 
ashamed  of  his  splendor,  is  a  proof  of  his  high  sense  of  it. 
"What  causes  an  individual  to  sneak  about  in  corners  and 
shady  places,  to  avoid  going  out  in  new  clothes  of  a  Sun- 
day, lest  he  be  mistaken  for  a  snob  ?  Sometimes  even  to 
go  the  lengths  of  ordering  his  servant  to  powder  his  new 
coat  with  sand,  or  to  wear  it  for  a  couple  of  days,  and  re- 
move the  gloss  thereof?  Are  not  these  manreuvres  proofs 
of  the  effects  of  new  coats  upon  mankind  in  general  ? 

As  this  notice  will  occupy  at  least  ten  pages  (for  a  rea- 
son that  may  be  afterwards  mentioned),  I  intend,  like  the 
great  philosophers  who  have  always  sacrificed  themselves 
for  the  public  good,  imbibing  diseases,  poisons,  and  medi- 


42  MEN  AND  COATS. 

cines,  submitting  to  operations,  inhaling  asphysifications, 
&c.,  in  order  that  they  might  note  in  themselves  the  par- 
ticular phenomena  of  the  case,  —  in  like  manner,  I  say,  I 
intend  to  write  this  essay  in  five  several  coats,  viz :  — 

1.  My  old  single-breasted  black  frock-coat,  with  patches 
at  the  elbows,  made  to  go  into  mourning  for  William  IV. 

2.  My  double-breasted  green  ditto,  made  last  year  but 
one,  and  still  very  good,  but  rather  queer  about  the  lining, 
and  snowy  in  the  seams. 

3.  My  grand  black  dress-coat,  made  by  Messrs.  Spard- 
ing  and  Spohrer,  of  Conduit  Street,  in  1836.     A  little 
scouring  and  renovating  have  given  it  a  stylish  look  even 
now ;  and  it  was  always  a  splendid  cut. 

4.  My  worsted-net-jacket  that  my  uncle  Harry  gave 
me  on  his  departure  for  Italy.     This  jacket  is  wadded 
inside  with  a  wool  like  that  one  makes  "Welsh  wigs  of; 
and   though  not   handsome,  amazing  comfortable,   with 
pockets  all  over. 

5.  MY  NEW  FROCK-COAT. 

Now,  will  the  reader  be  able  to  perceive  any  difference 
in  the  style  of  writing  of  each  chapter  ?  I  fancy  I  see  it 
myself  clearly;  and  am  convinced  that  the  new  frock- 
coat  chapter  will  be  infinitely  more  genteel,  spruce,  and 
glossy,  than  the  woollen-jacket  chapter;  which,  again, 
shall  be  more  comfortable  than  the  poor,  seedy,  patched 
William-the-Fourth's  black-frock  chapter.  The  double- 
breasted  green  one  will  be  dashing,  manly,  free-and-easy ; 
and,  though  not  fashionable,  yet  with  a  well-bred  look. 
The  grand  black-dress  chapter  will  be  solemn  and  grave, 
devilish  tight  about  the  waist,  abounding  in  bows  and 
shrugs,  and  small  talk ;  it  will  have  a  great  odor  of  bohea 
and  pound-cake ;  perhaps  there  will  be  a  faint  whiff  of 
negus ;  and  the  tails  will  whisk  up  in  a  quadrille  at  the 


MEN  AND  COATS.  43 

end,  or  sink  down,  mayhap,  on  a  supper-table  bench  be- 
fore a  quantity  of  trifles,  lobster-salads,  and  champagnes ; 
and  near  a  lovely  blushing  white  satin  skirt,  which  is  con- 
tinually crying  out,  "  O  you  ojous  creature ! "  or,  "  O  you 
naughty,  satirical  man,  you ! "  "  And  do  you  really  be- 
lieve Miss  Moffat  dyes  her  hair  ?  "  "  And  have  you  read 
that  sweet  thing  in  the  Keepsake  by  Lord  Diddle?" 
"  Well,  only  one  leetle,  leetle  drop,  for  mamma  will  scold  " ; 
and  "O  you  horrid  Mr.  Titmarsh,  you  have  filled  my 
glass,  I  declare!"  Dear  white  satin  skirt,  what  pretty 
shoulders  and  eyes  you  have !  what  a  nice  white  neck, 
and  bluish-mottled,  round,  innocent  arms  !  how  fresh  you 
are  and  candid !  and  ah,  my  dear,  what  a  fool  you  are  ! 

*  *  *  #  #= 

I  don't  have  so  many  coats  now-a-days  as  in  the  days 
of  hot  youth,  when  the  figure  was  more  elegant,  and 
credit,  mayhap,  more  plenty ;  and,  perhaps,  this  accounts 
for  the  feeling  of  unusual  exultation  that  comes  over  me 
as  I  assume  this  one.  Look  at  the  skirts  how  they  are 
shining  in  the  sun,  with  a  delicate  gloss  upon  them,  — 
that  evanescent  gloss  that  passes  away  with  the  first 
freshness  of  the  coat,  as  the  bloom  does  from  the  peach. 
A  friend  meets  you,  —  he  salutes  you  cordially,  but  looks 
puzzled  for  a  moment  at  the  change  in  your  appearance. 
"  I  have  it ! "  says  Jones.  "  Hobson,  my  boy,  I  congrat- 
ulate you,  —  a  new  coat,  and  very  neat  cut,  —  puce-col- 
ored frock,  brown  silk  lining,  brass  buttons,  and  velvet 
collar,  —  quite  novel,  and  quiet  and  genteel  at  the  same 
time."  You  say,  "Pooh,  Jones !  do  you  think  so,  though?" 
and  at  the  same  time  turn  round  just  to  give  him  a  view 
of  the  back,  in  which  there  is  not  a  single  wrinkle.  You 
find  suddenly  that  you  must  buy  a  new  stock ;  that  your 
old  Berlin  gloves  will  never  do ;  and  that  a  pair  of  three- 


44  MEN  AND  COATS. 

and-sixpenny  kids  are  absolutely  necessary.  You  find 
your  boots  are  cruelly  thick,  and  fancy  that  the  attention 
of  the  world  is  accurately  divided  between  the  new  frock- 
coat  and  the  patch  on  your  great  toe.  It  is  very  odd  that 
that  patch  did  not  annoy  you  yesterday  in  the  least  de- 
gree, —  that  you  looked  with  a  good-natured  grin  at  the 
old  sausage-fingered  Berlin  gloves,  bulging  out  at  the  end 
and  concaved  like  spoons.  But  there  is  a  change  in  the 

man,  without  any  doubt.     Notice  Sir  M O'D ; 

those  who  know  that  celebrated  military  man  by  sight 
are  aware  of  one  peculiarity  in  his  appearance,  —  his  hat 
is  never  brushed.  I  met  him  one  day  with  the  beaver 
brushed  quite  primly ;  and  looking  hard  at  the  baronet  to 
ascertain  the  cause  of  this  phenomenon,  saw  that  he  had 
a  new  coat.  Even  his  great  spirit  was  obliged  to  yield 
to  the  power  of  the  coat,  —  he  made  a  genteel  effort, — 
he  awoke  up  from  his  habitual  Diogenic  carelessness; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  had  Alexander,  before  he  vis- 
ited the  cynic,  ordered  some  one  to  fling  a  new  robe  into 
his  barrel,  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  he  would  have  found 
the  fellow  prating  and  boasting  with  all  the  airs  of  a  man 
of  fashion,  and  talking  of  tilburies,  opera  girls,  and  the 
last  ball  at  Devonshire  House,  as  if  the  brute  had  been 
used  for  all  his  life  to  no  other  company.  Fie  upon  the 
swaggering,  vulgar  bully !  I  have  always  wondered  how 
the  Prince  of  Macedon,  a  gentleman  by  birth,  with  an 
excellent  tutor  to  educate  him,  could  have  been  imposed 
upon  by  the  grovelling,  obscene,  envious  tub-man,  and 
could  have  uttered  the  speech  we  know  of.  It  was  a 
humbug,  depend  upon  it,  attributed  to  his  majesty  by 
some  maladroit  lion-mot  maker  of  the  court,  and  passed 
subsequently  for  genuine  Alexandrine. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  for  the  moralist  earnestly  to 


MEN  AND  COATS.  45 

point  out  to  persons  moving  in  a  modest  station  of  life 
the  necessity  of  not  having  coats  of  too  fashionable  and 
rakish  a  cut.  Coats  have  been,  and  will  be  in  the  course 
of  this  disquisition,  frequently  compared  to  the  flowers  of 
the  field :  like  them  they  bloom  for  a  season,  like  them 
they  grow  seedy  and  they  fade. 

Can  you  afford  always  to  renew  your  coat  when  this 
fatal  hour  arrives  ?  Is  your  coat  like  the  French  mon- 
archy, and  does  it  never  die  ?  Have,  then,  clothes  of  the 
newest  fashion,  and  pass  on  to  the  next  article  in  the 
Magazine,  —  unless,  always,  you  prefer  the  style  of  this 
one. 

But  while  a  shabby  coat,  worn  in  a  manly  way,  is  a 
bearable,  nay,  sometimes  a  pleasing  object,  reminding  one 
of  "  a  good  man  struggling  with  the  storms  of  fate,"  whom 
Mr.  Joseph  Addison  has  represented  in  his  tragedy  of 
Cato,  —  while  a  man  of  a  certain  character  may  look 
august  and  gentlemanlike  in  a  coat  of  a  certain  cut, — it  is 
quite  impossible  for  a  person  who  sports  an  ultra-fashion- 
able costume  to  wear  it  with  decency  beyond  a  half-year 
say.  My  coats  always  last  me  two  years,  and  any  man 
who  knows  me  knows  how  /  look ;  but  I  defy  Count 
d'Orsay  thus  publicly  to  wear  a  suit  for  seven  hundred 
and  thirty  days  consecutively,  and  look  respectable  at  the 
end  of  that  time.  In  like  manner,  I  would  defy,  without 

any  disrespect,  the  Marchioness  of  X ,  or  her  Grace 

the  Duchess  of  Z ,  to  sport  a  white  satin  gown  con- 
stantly for  six  months  and  look  decent.  There  is  propri- 
ety in  dress.  Ah,  my  poor  Noll  Goldsmith,  in  your  fa- 
mous plum-colored  velvet !  I  can  see  thee  strutting  down 
Fleet  Street,  and  stout  old  Sam  rolling  behind  as  Maister 
Boswell  pours  some  Caledonian  jokes  into  his  ear,  and 
grins  at  the  poor  vain  poet.  In  what  a  pretty  condition 


46  MEN  AND  COATS. 

will  Goldy's  puce-colored  velvet  be  about  two  months 
hence,  when  it  is  covered  with  dust  and  grease,  and  he 
comes  in  his  slatternly  finery  to  borrow  a  guinea  of  his 
friend ! 

A  friend  of  the  writer's  once  made  him  a  present  of 
two  very  handsome  gold  pins  ;  and  what  did  the  author 
of  this  notice  do  ?  Why,  with  his  usual  sagacity,  he  in- 
stantly sold  the  pins  for  five-and-twenty  shillings,  the  cost 
of  the  gold,  knowing  full  well  that  he  could  not  afford  to 
live  up  to  such  fancy  articles.  If  you  sport  handsome 
gold  pins,  you  must  have  everything  about  you  to  match. 
Nor  do  I  in  the  least  agree  with  my  friend  Bosk,  who  has 
a  large  amethyst  brooch,  and  fancies  that,  because  he 
sticks  it  in  his  shirt,  his  atrocious  shabby  stock  and  sur- 
tout  may  pass  muster.  No,  no  !  let  us  be  all  peacock,  if 
you  please ;  but  one  peacock's  feather  in  your  tail  is  a 
very  absurd  ornament,  and  of  course  all  moderate  men 
will  avoid  it.  I  remember,  when  I  travelled  with  Captain 
Cook  in  the  South  Sea  Islands,  to  have  seen  Quashama- 
boo  with  nothing  on  him  but  a  remarkably  fine  cocked- 
hat,  his  queen  sported  a  red  coat,  and  one  of  the  prin- 
cesses went  frisking  about  in  a  pair  of  leather-breeches, 
much  to  our  astonishment. 

This  costume  was  not  much  more  absurd  than  poor 
Goldsmith's,  who  might  be  very  likely  seen  drawing  forth 
from  the  gold-embroidered  pocket  of  his  plum-colored 
velvet,  a  pat  of  butter  wrapped  in  a  cabbage-leaf,  a  pair  of 
farthing  rushlights,  an  onion  or  two,  and  a  bit  of  bacon. 

I  recollect  meeting  a  great,  clever,  ruffianly  boor  of  a 
man,  who  had  made  acquaintance  with  a  certain  set  of 
very  questionable  aristocracy,  and  gave  himself  the  air  of 
a  man  of  fashion.  He  had  a  coat  made  of  the  very  pat- 
tern of  Lord  Toggery's,  —  a  green  frock,  a  green  velvet 


MEN  AND  COATS.  47 

collar,  a  green  lining  :  a  plate  of  spring-cabbage  is  not  of 
a  brisker,  brighter  hue.  This  man,  who  had  been  a  shop- 
keeper's apprentice  originally,  now  declared  that  every 
man  who  was  a  gentleman  wore  white  kid  gloves,  and  for 
a  certain  period  sported  a  fresh  pair  every  day. 

One  hot,  clear,  sunshiny,  July  day,  walking  down  the 
Haymarket  at  two  o'clock,  I  heard  a  great  yelling  and 
shouting  of  blackguard  boys,  and  saw  that  they  were 
hunting  some  object  in  their  front. 

The  object  approached  us,  —  it  was  a  green  object,  — 
a  green  coat,  collar,  and  lining,  and  a  pair  of  pseudo- 
white  kid  gloves.  The  gloves  were  dabbled  with  mud 
and  blood,  the  man  was  bleeding  at  the  nose,  and  slaver- 
ing at  the  mouth,  and  yelling  some  unintelligible  verses 
of  a  song,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  across  the  sunshiny 
street,  with  the  blackguard  boys  in  chase. 

I  turned  round  the  corner  of  Vigo  Lane  with  the  ve- 
locity of  a  cannon-ball,  and  sprung  panting  into  a  baker's 
shop.  It  was  Mr.  Bludyer,  our  London  Diogenes.  Have 
a  care  ye  gay,  dashing  Alexanders  !  how  ye  influence 
such  men  by  too  much  praise,  or  debauch  them  by  too 
much  intimacy.  How  much  of  that  man's  extravagance, 
and  absurd  aristocratic  airs,  and  subsequent  roueries,  and 
cutting  of  old  acquaintance,  is  to  be  attributed  to  his  im- 
itation of  Lord  Toggery's  coat ! 

Actors  of  the  lower  sort  affect  very  much  braiding  and 
fur  collars  to  their  frock-coats ;  and  a  very  curious  and 
instructive  sight  it  is  to  behold  these  personages  with 
pale,  lean  faces,  and  hats  cocked  on  one  side,  in  a  sort  of 
pseudo-military  trim.  One  sees  many  such  sauntering 
under  Drury  Lane  Colonnade,  or  about  Bow  Street,  with 
sickly  smiles  on  their  faces.  Poor  fellows,  poor  fellows  ! 
how  much  of  their  character  is  embroidered  in  that  seedy 


48  MEN  AND  COATS. 

braiding  of  their  coats !  Near  five  o'clock,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Rupert  Street  and  the  Haymarket,  you  may 
still  occasionally  see  the  old,  shabby,  manly,  gentlemanly, 
half-pay  frock :  but  the  braid  is  now  growing  scarce  in 
London  ;  and  your  military  man,  with  reason  perhaps, 
dresses  more  like  a  civilian ;  and  understanding  life  bet- 
ter, and  the  means  of  making  his  half-crown  go  as  far  as 
five  shillings  in  former  days,  has  usually  a  club  to  dine 
at,  and  leaves  Rupert  Street  eating-houses  to  persons  of  a 
different  grade,  —  to  some  of  those  dubious  dandies  whom 
one  sees  swaggering  in  Regent  Street  in  the  afternoon, 
or  to  those  gay,  spruce  gentlemen  whom  you  encounter 
in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  at  ten  minutes  after  five,  on 
their  way  westward  from  the  City.  Look  at  the  same 
hour  at  the  Temple,  and  issuing  thence  and  from  Essex 
Street,  you  behold  many  scores  of  neat  barristers,  who 
are  walking  to  the  joint  and  half  a  pint  of  Marsala  at  the 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  Club.  They  are  generally  tall, 
slim,  proper,  well-dressed  men,  but  their  coats  are  too 
prim  and  professionally  cut.  Indeed,  I  have  generally  re- 
marked that  their  clerks,  who  leave  chambers  about  the 
same  time,  have  a  far  more  rakish  and  fashionable  air ; 
and  if,  my  dear  madam,  you  will  condescend  to  take  a 
beefsteak  at  the  Cock,  or  at  some  of  the  houses  around 
Covent  Garden,  you  will  at  once  allow  that  this  statement 
is  perfectly  correct. 

I  have  always  had  rather  a  contempt  for  a  man  who, 
on  arriving  at  home,  deliberately  takes  his  best  coat  from 
his  back  and  adopts  an  old  and  shabby  one.  It  is  a  mean 
precaution.  Unless  very  low  in  the  world  indeed,  one 
should  be  above  a  proceeding  so  petty.  Once  I  knew  a 
French  lady  very  smartly  dressed  in  a  black  velvet 
pelisse,  a  person  whom  I  admired  very  much,  —  and  in- 


MEN  AND  COATS.  49 

deed  for  the  matter  of  that  she  was  very  fond  of  me,  but 
that  is  neither  here  nor  there,  —  I  say  I  knew  a  French 
lady  of  some  repute  who  used  to  wear  a  velvet  pelisse, 
and  how  do  you  think  the  back  of  it  was  arranged  ? 

Why,  pelisses  are  worn,  as  you  know,  very  full  be- 
hind ;  and  Madame  de  Tournuronval  had  actually  a  strip 
of  black  satin  let  into  the  hinder  part  of  her  dress,  over 
which  the  velvet  used  to  close  with  a  spring  when  she 
walked  or  stood,  so  that  the  satin  was  invisible.  But 
when  she  sat  on  a  chair,  especially  one  of  the  cane-bot- 
tomed species,  Euphemia  gave  a  loose  to  her  spring,  the 
velvet  divided  on  each  side,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  satin. 

Was  it  an  authorized  stratagem  of  millinery  ?  Is  a  wo- 
man under  any  circumstances  permitted  to  indulge  in  such 
a  manceuvre  ?  I  say,  No.  A  woman  with  such  a  gown 
is  of  a  mean,  deceitful  character.  Of  a  woman  who  has 
a  black  satin  patch  behind  her  velvet  gown,  it  is  right 
that  one  should  speak  ill  behind  the  back ;  and  when  I 
saw  Euphemia  Tournuronval  spread  out  her  wings  (non 
usitatce  penntz,  but  what  else  to  call  them  ?)  —  spread  out 
her  skirts  and  insure  them  from  injury  by  means  of  this 
dastardly  ruse,  I  quitted  the  room  in  disgust,  and  never 
was  intimate  with  her  as  before.  A  widow  I  know  she 
was ;  I  am  certain  she  looked  sweet  upon  me  ;  and  she 
said  she  had  a  fortune,  but  I  don't  believe  it.  Away 
with  parsimonious  ostentation  !  That  woman,  had  I 
married  her,  would  either  have  turned  out  a  swindler,  or 
we  should  have  had  bouitti  five  times  a  week  for  dinner, 
—  bouilli  off  silver,  and  hungry  lackeys  in  lace  looking 
on  at  the  windy  meal ! 

The  old  coat  plan  is  not  so  base  as  the  above  female 
arrangement ;  but  say  what  you  will,  it  is  not  high-minded 
and  honorable  to  go  out  in  a  good  coat,  to  flaunt  the 

3  D 


50  MEN  AND  COATS. 

streets  in  it  with  an  easy,  degage  air,  as  if  you  always 
wore  such,  and  returning  home  assume  another  under  pre- 
text of  dressing  for  dinner.  There  is  no  harm  in  putting 
on  your  old  coat  of  a  morning,  or  in  wearing  one  always. 
Common  reason  points  out  the  former  precaution,  which 
is  at  once  modest  and  manly.  If  your  coat  pinches  you, 
there  is  no  harm  in  changing  it ;  if  you  are  going  out  to 
dinner,  there  is  no  harm  in  changing  it  for  a  better.  But 
I  say  the  plan  of  habitual  changing  is  a  base  one,  and 
only  fit  for  a  man  at  last  extremities ;  or  for  a  clerk  in 
the  city,  who  hangs  up  his  best  garment  on  a  peg,  both 
at  the  office  and  at  home  ;  or  for  a  man  who  smokes,  and 
has  to  keep  his  coat  for  tea-parties,  —  a  paltry  precaution, 
however,  this.  If  you  like  smoking,  why  should  n't  you  ? 
If  you  do  smell  a  little  of  tobacco,  where 's  the  harm  ?  The 
smell  is  not  pleasant,  but  it  does  not  kill  anybody.  If  the 
lady  of  the  house  do  not  like  it,  she  is  quite  at  liberty  not 
to  invite  you  again.  Et  puis  ?  Bah  !  Of  what  age  are 
you  and  I  ?  Have  we  lived  ?  Have  we  seen  men  and 
cities  ?  Have  we  their  manners  noted,  and  understood 
their  idiosyncrasy  ?  Without  a  doubt !  And  what  is  the 
truth  at  which  we  have  arrived  ?  This,  —  that  a  pipe  of 
tobacco  is  many  an  hour  in  the  day,  and  many  a  week  in 
the  month,  a  thousand  times  better  and  more  agreeable 
society  than  the  best  Miss,  the  loveliest  Mrs.,  the  most 
beautiful  Baroness,  Countess,  or  what  not.  Go  to  tea- 
parties,  those  who  will ;  talk  fiddle-faddle,  such  as  like  ; 
many  men  there  are  who  do  so,  and  are  a  little  par- 
tial to  music,  and  know  how  to  twist  the  leaf  of  the  song 
that  Miss  Jemima  is  singing  exactly  at  the  right  moment. 
Very  good.  These  are  the  enjoyments  of  dress-coats  ; 
but  men,  —  are  they  to  be  put  off  with  such  fare  forever  ? 
No !  One  goes  out  to  dinner,  because  one  likes  eating 


MEN  AND   COATS.  51 

and  drinking ;  because  the  very  act  of  eating  and  drink- 
ing opens  the  heart,  and  causes  the  tongue  to  wag.  But 
evenipg  parties !  O,  milk  and  water,  bread  and  butter  ! 
No,  no,  the  age  is  wiser  !  The  manly  youth  frequents  his 
club  for  common  society,  has  a  small  circle  of  amiable 
ladies  for  friendly  intercourse,  his  book  and  his  pipe 
always. 

Do  not  be  angry,  ladies,  that  one  of  your  most  ardent 
and  sincere  admirers  should  seem  to  speak  disparagingly 
of  your  merits,  or  recommend  his  fellows  to  shun  the  so- 
ciety in  which  you  ordinarily  assemble.  No,  Miss,  I  am 
the  man  who  respect  you  truly,  —  the  man  who  respect 
and  love  you  when  you  are  most  lovely  and  respectable, 
—  in  your  families,  my  dears.  A  wife,  a  mother,  a 
daughter,  —  has  God  made  anything  more  beautiful  ?  A 
friend,  —  can  one  find  a  truer,  kinder,  a  more  generous 
and  enthusiastic  one,  than  a  woman  often  will  be  ?  All 
that  has  to  do  with  your  hearts  is  beautiful,  and  in  every- 
thing with  which  they  meddle,  a  man  must  be  a  brute  not 
to  love  and  honor  you. 

But  Miss  Rudge  in  blue  crape,  squeaking  romances  at 
a  harp,  or  Miss  Tobin  dancing  in  a  quadrille,  or  Miss 
Blogg  twisting  round  the  room  in  the  arms  of  a  lumber- 
ing Lifeguardsman  ;  —  what  are  these  ?  —  so  many  vani- 
ties. With  the  operations  here  described  the  heart  has 
nothing  to  do.  Has  the  intellect  ?  O,  ye  gods !  think 
of  Miss  Rudge's  intellect  while  singing,  — 

"  Away,  away  to  the  mountain's  brow, 
Where  the  trees  are  gently  waving  ; 
Away,  away  to  the  fountain's  flow, 

Where  the  streams  are  softly  la-a-ving!  " 

These  are  the  words  of  a  real  song  that  I  have  heard 
many  times,  and  rapturously  applauded  too.  Such  a 
song,  such  a  poem,  —  such  a  songster  ! 


52  MEN  AND  COATS. 

No,  madam,  if  I  want  to  hear  a  song  sung  I  will  pay 
eight  and  sixpence  and  listen  to  Tamburini  and  Persian!. 
I  will  not  pay,  gloves,  three-and-six  ;  cab,  there  and  back, 
four  shillings  ;  silk  stockings  every  now  and  then,  say  a 
shilling  a  time  ;  I  will  not  pay  to  hear  Miss  Rudge 
screech  such  disgusting  twaddle  as  the  above.  If  I  want 
to  see  dancing,  there  is  Taglioni  for  my  money  ;  or  across 
the  wafer,  Mrs.  Serle  and  her  forty  pupils  ;  or  at  Cov- 
ent  Garden,  Madame  Vedy,  beautiful  as  a  houri,  dark- 
eyed  and  agile  as  a  gazelle.  I  can  see  all  these  in  com- 
fort, and  they  dance  a  great  deal  better  than  Miss  Blogg 
and  Captain  Haggerty,  the  great  red-whiskered  monster, 
who  always  wears  nankeens  because  he  thinks  his  legs 
are  fine.  If  I  want  conversation,  what  has  Miss  Flock 
to  say  to  me,  forsooth,  between  the  figures  of  a  cursed 
quadrille  that  we  are  all  gravely  dancing  ?  By  heavens, 
what  an  agony  it  is  !  Look  at  the  he-dancers,  they  seem 
oppressed  with  dreadful  care.  Look  at  the  cavalier  seul ! 
if  the  operation  lasted  long  the  man's  hair  would  turn 
white,  —  he  would  go  mad  !  And  is  it  for  this  that  men 
and  women  assemble  in  multitudes,  for  this  sorry  pas- 
time ? 

No  !  dance  as  you  will,  Miss  Smith,  and  swim  through 
the  quadrille  like  a  swan,  or  flutter  through  the  gallop 
like  a  sylphide,  and  have  the  most  elegant  fresh  toilettes, 
the  most  brilliantly  polished  white  shoulders,  the  blandest 
eyes,  the  reddest,  simperingest  mouth,  the  whitest  neck, 
the  —  in  fact,  I  say,  be  as  charming  as  you  will,  that  is 
not  the  place  to  which,  if  you  are  worth  anything,  you  are 
most  charming.  You  are  beautiful ;  you  are  very  much 
decolletee  ;  your  eyes  are  always  glancing  down  at  a 
pretty  pearl  necklace,  round  a  pearly  neck,  or  on  a  fresh, 
fragrant  bouquet,  stuck  —  fiddlestick  !  What  is  it  that 


MEN  AND  COATS.  53 

the  men  admire  in  you  ?  —  the  animal,  Miss,  —  the  white, 
plump,  external  Smith,  which  men  with  their  eye-glasses, 
standing  at  various  parts  of  the  room,  are  scanning  pertly 
and  curiously,  and  of  which  they  are  speaking  brutally. 
A  pretty  admiration,  truly  !  But  is  it  possible  that  these 
men  can  admire  anything  else  in  you  who  have  so  much 
that  is  really  admirable  ?  Cracknell,  in  the  course  of  the 
waltz,  has  just  time  to  pant  into  your  ear,  "  Were  you  at 
Ascot  Races  ?  "  Kidwinter,  who  dances  two  sets  of  quad- 
rilles with  you,  whispers  to  you,  "  Do  you  pwefer  thtwaw- 
bewy  ithe  aw  wathbewy  ithe  ? "  and  asks  the  name  of 
•"  that  gweat  enawmuth  fat  woman  in  wed  thatin  and  bird 
of  pawadithe  ?  "  to  which  you  reply,  "  Law,  sir,  it 's  mam- 
ma ! "  The  rest  of  the  evening  passes  away  in  conversa- 
tion similarly  edifying.  What  can  any  of  the  men  admire 
in  you,  you  little  silly  creature,  but  the  animal  ?  There 
is  your  mother,  now,  in  red  and  a  bird  of  paradise,  as 
Kidwinter  says.  She  has  a  large  fan,  which  she  flaps  to 
and  fro  across  a  broad  chest ;  and  has  one  eye  directed  to 
her  Amelia,  dancing  with  Kidwinter  before  mentioned  ; 
another  watching  Jane,  who  is  dancing  vis-a>-vis  with 
Major  Cutts  ;  and  a  third  complacently  cast  upon  Ed- 
ward, who  is  figuring  with  Miss  Binx  in  tire  other  quad- 
rille. How  the  dear  fellow  has  grown,  to  be  sure  ;  and 
how  like  his  papa  at  his  age  —  heigho  !  There  is  mam- 
ma, the  best  woman  breathing ;  but  fat,  and  even  enor- 
mous, as  has  been  said  of  her.  Does  anybody  gaze  on 
her  ?  And  yet  she  was  once  as  slim  and  as  fair  as  you, 
O  simple  Amelia ! 

Does  anybody  care  for  her  ?  Yes,  one.  Your  father 
cares  for  her  ;  SMITH  cares  for  her ;  and  in  his  eyes  she 
is  still  the  finest  woman  of  the  room ;  and  he  remembers 
when  he  danced  down  seven-and-forty  couples  of  a  coun- 


54  MEN  AND  COATS. 

.try-dance  with  her,  two  years  before  you  were  born  or 
thought  of.  But  it  was  all  chance  that  Miss  Hopkins 
turned  out  to  be  the  excellent  creature  she  was.  Smith 
did  not  know  any  more  than  that  she  was  gay,  plump, 
good-looking,  and  had  five  thousand  pounds.  Hit  or  miss, 
he  took  her,  and  has  had  assuredly  no  cause  to  complain ; 
but  she  might  have  been  a  Borgia  or  Joan  of  Naples, 
and  have  had  the  same  smiling  looks  and  red  cheeks,  and 
five  thousand  pounds,  which  won  his  heart  in  the  year 
1814. 

The  system  of  evening  parties,  then,  is  a  false  and  ab- 
surd one.  Ladies  may  frequent  them  professionally  with 
an  eye  to  a  husband,  but  a  man  is  an  ass  who  takes  a  wife 
out  of  such  assemblies,  having  no  other  means  of  judging 
of  the  object  of  his  choice.  You  are  not  the  same  person 
in  your  white  crape  and  satin  slip  as  you  are  in  your 
morning  dress.  A  man  is  not  the  same  in  his  tight  coat 
and  feverish  glazed  pumps,  and  stiff  white  waistcoat,  as 
he  is  in  his  green  double-breasted  frock,  his  old  black 
ditto,  or  his  woollen  jacket.  And  a  man  is  doubly  an  ass 
who  is  in  the  habit  of  frequenting  evening  parties,  unless 
he  is  forced  thither  in  search  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  is 
attached,  or  unless  he  is  compelled  to  go  by  his  wife.  A 
man  who  loves  dancing  may  be  set  down  to  be  an  ass ; 
and  the  fashion  is  greatly  going  out  with  the  increasing 
good  sense  of  the  age.  Do  not  say  that  he  who  lives  at 
home,  or  frequents  clubs  in  lieu  of  balls,  is  a  brute,  and 
has  not  a  proper  respect  for  the  female  sex  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  may  respect  it  most  sincerely.  He  feels  that  a 
woman  appears  to  most  advantage,  not  among  those  whom 
she  cannot  care  about,  but  among  those  whom  she  loves. 
He  thinks  her  beautiful  when  she  is  at  home  making  tea  for 
her  old  father.  He  believes  her  to  be  charming  when  she 


MEN  AND  COATS.  55 

is  singing  a  simple  song  at  her  piano,  but  not  when  she  is 
screeching  at  an  evening  party.  He  thinks  by  far  the 
most  valuable  part  of  her  is  her  heart ;  and  a  kind,  sim- 
ple heart,  my  dear,  shines  in  conversation  better  than  the 
best  of  wit.  He  admires  her  best  in  her  intercourse  with 
her  family  and  her  friends,  and  detests  the  miserable, 
twaddling  slipslop  that  he  is  obliged  to  hear  from  and 
utter  to  her  in  the  course  of  a  ball ;  and  avoids  and  de- 
spises such  meetings. 

He  keeps  his  evening  coat,  then,  for  dinners.  And  if 
this  friendly  address  to  all  the  mothers  who  read  this 
miscellany  may  somewhat  be  acted  upon  by  them ;  if 
heads  of  families,  instead  of  spending  hundreds  upon 
chalking  floors,  and  Gunter,  and  cold  suppers,  and  Weip- 
pert's  band,  will  determine  upon  giving  a  series  of  plain, 
neat,  nice  dinners,  of  not  too  many  courses,  but  well 
cooked,  of  not  too  many  wines,  but  good  of  their  sort,  and 
according  to  the  giver's  degree,  they  will  see  that  the 
young  men  will  come  to  them  fast  enough ;  that  they 
will  marry  their  daughters  quite  as  fast,  without  injuring 
their  health,  and  that  they  will  make  a  saving  at  the 
year's  end.  I  say  that  young  men,  young  women,  and 
heads  of  families,  should  bless  me  for  pointing  out  this 
obvious  plan  to  them,  so  natural,  so  hearty,  so  hospitable, 
so  different  to  the  present  artificial  mode. 

A  grand  ball  in  a  palace  is  splendid,  generous,  and 
noble,  —  a  sort  of  procession  in  which  people  may  figure 
properly.  A  family  dance  is  a  pretty  and  pleasant  amuse- 
ment ;  and  (especially  after  dinner)  it  does  the  philoso- 
pher's heart  good  to  look  upon  merry  young  people  who 
know  each  other,  and  are  happy,  natural,  and  familiar. 
But  a  Baker  Street  hop  is  a  base  invention,  and  as  such 
let  it  be  denounced  and  avoided. 


56  MEN  AND   COATS. 

A  dressing-gown  has  great  merits,  certainly,  but  it  is 
dangerous.  A  man  who  wears  it  of  mornings  generally 
takes  the  liberty  of  going  without  a  neckcloth,  or  of  not 
shaving,  and  is  no  better  than  a  driveller.  Sometimes, 
to  be  sure,  it  is  necessary,  in  self-defence,  not  to  shave, 
as  a  precaution  against  yourself  that  is  to  say;  and  I 
know  no  better  means  of  ensuring  a  man's  remaining  at 
home  than  neglecting  the  use  of  the  lather  and  razor  for 
a  week,  and  encouraging  a  crop  of  bristles.  When  I 
wrote  my  tragedy,  I  shaved  off  for  the  last  two  acts  my 
left  eyebrow,  and  never  stirred  out  of  doors  until  it  had 
grown  to  be  a  great  deal  thicker  than  its  right-hand 
neighbor.  But  this  was  an  extreme  precaution,  and  un- 
less a  man  has  very  strong  reasons  indeed  for  stopping 
at  home,  and  a  very  violent  propensity  to  gadding,  his 
best  plan  is  to  shave  every  morning  neatly,  to  put  on  his 
regular  coat,  and  go  regularly  to  work,  and  to  avoid  a 
dressing-gown  as  the  father  of  all  evil.  Painters  are  the 
only  persons  who  can  decently  appear  in  dressing-gowns ; 
but  these  are  none  of  your  easy  morning-gowns;  they 
are  commonly  of  splendid  stuff,  and  put  on  by  the  artist 
in  order  to  render  himself  remarkable  and  splendid  in  the 
eyes  of  his  sitter.  Your  loose-wadded  German  schlaf- 
rock,  imported  of  late  years  into  our  country,  is  the  lazi- 
est, filthiest  invention ;  and  I  always  augur  as  ill  of  a 
man  whom  I  see  appearing  at  breakfast  in  one,  as  of  a 
woman  who  comes  down  stairs  in  curl-papers. 

By  the  way,  in  the  third  act  of  Macbeth,  Mr.  Macready 
makes  his  appearance  in  the  court-yard  of  Glamis  Castle 
in  an  affair  of  brocade  that  has  always  struck  me  as  ab- 
surd and  un-Macbethlike.  Mac  in  a  dressing-gown  (I 
mean  'Beth,  not  'Ready),  —  Mac  in  list  slippers,  —  Mac 
in  a  cotton  nightcap,  with  a  tassel  bobbing  up  and  down, 


MEN  AND  COATS.  57 

—  I  say  the  thought  is  unworthy,  and  am  sure  the  worthy 
thane  would  have  come  out,  if  suddenly  called  from  bed, 
by  any  circumstance,  however  painful,  in  a  good  stout 
jacket.  It  is  a  more  manly,  simple,  and  majestic  wear 
than  the  lazy  dressing-gown  ;  it  more  becomes  a  man  of 
Macbeth's  mountainous  habits ;  it  leaves  his  legs  quite 
free,  to  run  whithersoever  he  pleases,  —  whether  to  the 
stables,  to  look  at  the  animals,  —  to  the  farm,  to  see  the 
pig  that  has  been  slaughtered  that  morning,  —  to  the  gar- 
den, to  examine  whether  that  scoundrel  of  a  John  Hos- 
kins  has  dug  up  the  potato-bed,  —  to  the  nursery,  to  have 
a  romp  with  the  little  Macbeths  that  are  spluttering  and 
quarrelling  over  their  porridge,  —  or  whither  you  will. 
A  man  in  a  jacket  is  fit  company  for  anybody ;  there  is 
no  shame  about  it  as  about  being  seen  in  a  changed  coat ; 
it  is  simple,  steady,  and  straightforward.  It  is,  as  I  have 
stated,  all  over  pockets,  which  contain  everything  you 
want ;  in  one,  your  buttons,  hammer,  small  nails,  thread, 
twine,  and  cloth-strips  for  the  trees  on  the  south  wall ;  in 
another,  your  dog-whip  and  whistle,  your  knife,  cigai*- 
case,  gingerbread  for  the  children,  paper  of  Epsom  salts 
for  John  Hoskins's  mother,  who  is  mortal  bad,  —  and  so 
on :  there  is  no  end  to  the  pockets,  and  to  the  things  you 
put  in  them.  Walk  about  in  your  jacket,  and  meet  what 
person  you  will,  you  assume  at  once  an  independent  air  ; 
and,  thrusting  your  hands  into  the  receptacle  that  flaps 
over  each  hip,  look  the  visitor  in  the  face,  and  talk  to  the 
ladies  on  a  footing  of  perfect  equality.  Whereas,  look  at 
the  sneaking  way  in  which  a  man  caught  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  in  loose  bagging  trousers  most  likely  (for  the  man 
who  has  a  dressing-gown,  has,  two  to  one,  no  braces),  and 
in  shuffling  slippers,  —  see  how  he  whisks  his  dressing- 
gown  over  his  legs,  and  looks  ashamed  and  uneasy.  His 
3* 


58  MEN  AND  COATS. 

lanky  hair  hangs  over  his  blowsy,  fat,  shining,  unhealthy 
face  ;  his  bristly,  dumpling-shaped  double  chin  peers  over 
a  flaccid  shirt  collar ;  the  sleeves  of  his  gown  are  in  rags, 
and  you  see  underneath  a  pair  of  black  wristbands,  and 
the  rim  of  a  dingy  flannel  waistcoat. 

A  man  who  is  not  strictly  neat  in  his  person  is  not  an 
honest  man.  I  shall  not  enter  into  this  very  ticklish  sub- 
ject of  personal  purification  and  neatness,  because  this  es- 
say will  be  read  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  ladies  as 
well  as  men  ;  and  for  the  former  I  would  wish  to  provide 
nothing  but  pleasure.  Men  may  listen  to  stern  truths ; 
but  for  ladies  one  should  only  speak  verities  that  are 
sparkling,  rosy,  brisk,  and  agreeable.  A  man  who  wears 
a  dressing-gown  is  not  neat  in  his  person  ;  his  moral  char- 
acter takes  invariably  some  of  the  slatternliness  and  loose- 
ness of  his  costume  ;  he  becomes  enervated,  lazy,  incapa- 
ble of  great  actions ;  A  man  IN  A  JACKET  is  a  man.  All 
great  men  wore  jackets.  Walter  Scott  wore  a  jacket,  as 
everybody  knows  ;  Byron  wore  a  jacket  (not  that  I  count 
a  man  who  turns  down  his  collars  for  much)  ;  I  have  a 
picture  of  Napoleon  in  a  jacket,  at  St.  Helena ;  Thomas 
Carlyle  wears  a  jacket ;  Lord  John  Russell  always  mounts 
a  jacket  on  arriving  at  the  Colonial  Office  ;  and  if  I  have 
a  single  fault  to  find  with  that  popular  writer,  the  author 

of never  mind  what,  you  know  his  name  as  well  as 

I,  —  it  is  that  he  is  in  the  habit  of  composing  his  works 
in  a  large,  flowered  damask  dressing-gown,  and  morocco 
slippers  ;  whereas,  in  a  jacket  he  would  write  you  off 
something,  not  so  flowery,  if  you  please,  but  of  honest 
texture,  —  something,  not  so  long,  but  terse,  modest,  and 
comfortable,  —  no  great,  long,  strealing  tails  of  periods, 
—  no  staring  peonies  and  hollyhocks  of  illustrations,  — 
no  flaring  cords  and  tassels  of  episodes,  —  no  great,  dirty, 


MEN  AND  COATS.  59 

wadded  sleeves  of  sentiment,  ragged  at  the  elbows  and 
cuffs,  and  mopping  up  everything  that  comes  in  their 
way,  —  cigar-ashes,  ink,  candle-wax,  cold  brandy-and- 
water,  coffee,  or  whatever  aids  to  the  brain  he  may  em- 
ploy as  a  literary  man ;  not  to  mention  the  quantity  of 
tooth-powder,  whisker-dye,  soapsuds,  and  pomatum,  that 
the  same  garment  receives  in  the  course  of  the  toilets  at 
which  it  assists.  Let  all  literary  men,  then,  get  jackets. 
I  prefer  them  without  tails  ;  but  do  not  let  this  interfere 
with  another  man's  pleasure  :  he  may  have  tails  if  he 
likes,  and  I  for  one  will  never  say  him  nay. 

Like  all  things,  however,  jackets  are  subject  to  abuse  ; 
and  the  pertness  and  conceit  of  those  jackets  cannot  be 
sufficiently  reprehended  which  one  sees  on  the  backs  of 
men  at  watering-places,  with  a  telescope  poking  out  of 
one  pocket,  and  a  yellow  bandana  flaunting  from  the 
other.  Nothing  is  more  contemptible  than  Tims  in  a 
jacket,  with  a  blue  bird's-eye  neck-handkerchief  tied 
sailor-fashion,  puffing  smoke  like  a  steamer,  with  his 
great  broad  orbicular  stern  shining  in  the  sun.  I  al- 
ways long  to  give  the  wretch  a  smart  smack  upon  that 
part  where  his  coat-tails  ought  to  be,  and  advise  him  to 
get  into  a  more  decent  costume.  There  is  an  age  and  a 
figure  for  jackets  ;  those  who  are  of  a  certain  build  should 
not  wear  them  in  public.  "Witness  fat  officers  of  the 
dragoon-guards  that  one  has  seen  bumping  up  and  down 
the  Steyne,  at  Brighton,  on  their  great  chargers,  with  a 
laced  and  embroidered  coat,  a  cartridge-box,  or  whatever 
you  call  it,  of  the  size  of  a  twopenny  loaf,  placed  on  the 
small  of  their  backs,  —  if  their  backs  may  be  said  to  have 
a  small,  —  and  two  little  twinkling  abortions  of  tails 
pointing  downwards  to  the  enormity  jolting  in  the  saddle. 
Officers  should  be  occasionally  measured,  and  after  pass- 


60  MEN  AND  COATS. 

ing  a  certain  width,  should  be  drafted  into  other   regi- 
ments, or  allowed,  —  nay  ordered  to  wear  frock-coats. 

The  French  tailors  make  frock-coats  very  well,  but  the 
people  who  wear  them  have  the  disgusting  habit  of  wear- 
ing stays,  than  which  nothing  can  be  more  unbecoming 
the  dignity  of  man.  Look  what  a  waist  the  Apollo  has, 
not  above  four  inches  less  in  the  girth  than  the  chest  is. 
Look,  ladies,  at  the  waist  of  the  Venus,  and  pray,  —  pray 
do  not  pinch  in  your  dear  little  ribs  in  that  odious  and 
unseemly  way.  In  a  young  man  a  slim  waist  is  very 
well ;  and  if  he  looks  like  the  Eddystone  lighthouse,  it  is 
as  nature  intended  him  to  look.  A  man  of  certain  age 
may  be  built  like  a  tower,  stalwart  and  straight.  Then  a 
man's  middle  may  expand  from  the  pure  cylindrical  to 
the  barrel  shape ;  well,  let  him  be  content.  Nothing  is 
so  horrid  as  a  fat  man  with  a  band ;  an  hour-glass  is  a 
most  mean  and  ungracious  figure.  Daniel  Lambert  is 
ungracious,  but  not  mean.  One  meets  with  some  men 
who  look  in  their  frock-coats  perfectly  sordid,  sneaking, 
and  ungentlemanlike,  who  if  you  see  them  dressed  for  an 
evening  have  a  slim,  easy,  almost  fashionable,  appearance. 
Set  these  persons  down  as  fellows  of  poor  spirit  and  milk- 
sops. Stiff  white  ties  and  waistcoats,  prim  straight  tails,  and 
a  gold  chain,  will  give  any  man  of  moderate  lankiness  an 
air  of  factitious  gentility ;  but  if  you  want  to  understand 
the  individual,  look  at  him  in  the  daytime ;  see  him  walk- 
ing with  his  hat  on.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  the  build 
and  wearing  of  hats,  a  great  deal  more  than  at  first  meets 
the  eye.  I  know  a  man  who  in  a  particular  hat  looked 
so  extraordinarily  like  a  man  of  property,  that  no  trades- 
man on  earth  could  refuse  to  give  him  credit.  It  was 
one  of  Andre's,  and  cost  a  guinea  and  a  half  ready  money; 
but  the  person  in  question  was  frightened  at  the  enormous 


MEN  AND  COATS.  61 

charge,  and  afterwards  purchased  beavers  in  the  city  at 
the  cost  of  seventeen-and-sixpence.  Arid  what  was  the 
consequence  ?  He  fell  off  in  public  estimation,  and  very 
soon  after  he  came  out  in  his  city  hat  it  began  to  be  whis- 
pered abroad  that  he  was  a  ruined  man. 

A  blue  coat  is,  after  all,  the  best ;  but  a  gentleman  of 
my  acquaintance  has  made  his  fortune  by  an  Oxford  mix- 
ture, of  all  colors  in  the  world,  with  a  pair  of  white  buck- 
skin gloves.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  just  got  off  his  horse, 
and  as  if  he  had  three  thousand  a-year  in  the  country. 
There  is  a  kind  of  proud  humility  in  an  Oxford  mixture. 
Velvet  collars,  and  all  such  gimcracks,  had  best  be  avoid- 
ed by  sober  people.  This  paper  is  not  written  for  drivel- 
ling dandies,  but  for  honest  men.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  philosophy  and  forethought  in  Sir  Robert  Peel's  dress ; 
he  does  not  wear  those  white  waistcoats  for  nothing.  I 
say  that  O' Council's  costume  is  likewise  that  of  a  profound 
rhetorician,  slouching  and  careless  as  it  seems.  Lord 
Melbourne's  air  of  reckless,  good-humored,  don't-care-a- 
damn-ativeness  is  not  obtained  without  an  effort.  Look 
at  the  Duke  as  he  passes  along  in  that  stern  little  straight 
frock  and  plaid  breeches ;  look  at  him,  and  off  with  your 
hat !  How  much  is  there  in  that  little  gray  coat  of  Na- 
poleon's !  A  spice  of  clap-trap  and  dandyism,  no  doubt ; 
but  we  must  remember  the  country  which  he  had  to  gov- 
ern. I  never  see  a  picture  of  George  III.  in  his  old  stout 
Windsor  uniform  without  feeling  a  respect ;  or  of  George 
IV.,  breeches  and  silk  stockings,  a  wig,  a  sham  smile,  a 
frogged  frock-coat  and  a  fur  collar,  without  that  proper 
degree  of  reverence  which  such  a  costume  should  inspire. 
The  coat  is  the  expression  of  the  man,  —  ol^ep  <£uAA<oi/, 
&c. ;  and  as  the  peach-tree  throws  out  peach-leaves,  the 
pear-tree  pear  ditto,  as  old  George  appeared  invested  in  the 


62  MEN  AND   COATS. 

sober  old  garment  of  blue  and  red,  so  did  young  George 
in  oiled  wigs,  fur  collars,  stays,  and  braided  surtouts, 
according  to  his  nature. 

*  *  *  *  # 

Enough,  —  enough ;  and  may  these  thoughts  arising  in 
the  writer's  mind  from  the  possession  of  a  new  coat,  which 
circumstance  caused  him  to  think  not  only  of  new  coats 
but  of  old  ones,  and  of  coats  neither  old  nor  new,  —  and 
not  of  coats  merely,  but  of  men,  —  may  these  thoughts  so 
inspired  answer  the  purpose  for  which  they  have  been  set 
down  on  paper,  and  which  is  not  a  silly  wish  to  instruct 
mankind,  —  no,  no;  but  an  honest  desire  to  pay  a  de- 
serving tradesman  whose  confidence  supplied  the  garment 
in  question. 

PENTONVILLE,  April  25,  1841. 


BLUEBEARD'S    GHOST. 

OR  some  time  after  the  fatal  accident  which 
deprived  her  of  her  husband,  Mrs.  Bluebeard 
wa?,  as  may  be  imagined,  in  a  state  of  profound 
grief. 

There  was  not  a  widow  in  all  the  country  who  went  to 
such  an  expense  for  black  bombazine.  She  had  her 
beautiful  hair  confined  in  crimped  caps,  and  her  weepers 
came  over  her  elbows.  Of  course  she  saw  no  company 
except  her  sister  Anne  (whose  company  was  anything 
but  pleasant  to  the  widow)  ;  as  for  her  brothers,  their 
odious  mess-table  manners  had  always  been  disagreeable 
to  her.  What  did  she  care  for  jokes  about  the  major,  or 
scandal  concerning  the  Scotch  surgeon  of  the  regiment  ? 
If  they  drank  their  wine  out  of  black  bottles  or  crystal, 
what  did  it  matter  to  her  ?  Their  stories  of  the  stable, 
the  parade,  and  the  last  run  with  the  hounds,  were  per- 
fectly odious  to  her ;  besides  she  could  not  bear  their  im- 
pertinent mustachios,  and  filthy  habit  of  smoking  cigars. 

They  were  always  wild,  vulgar  young  men,  at  the  best ; 
but  now  —  now,  oh !  their  presence  to  her  delicate  soul 
was  horror !  How  could  she  bear  to  look  on  them  after 
what  had  occurred?  She  thought  of  the  best  of  hus- 
bands ruthlessly  cut  down  by  their  cruel,  heavy,  cavalry 
sabres ;  the  kind  friend,  the  generous  landlord,  the  spot- 


64  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

less  justice  of  peace,  in  whose  family  differences  these 
rude  cornets  of  dragoons  had  dared  to  interfere,  whose 
venerable  blue  hairs  they  had  dragged  down  with  sorrow 
to  the  grave ! 

She  put  up  a  most  splendid  monument  to  her  departed 
lord  over  the  family  vault  of  the  Bluebeards.  The  rector, 
Dr.  Sly,  who  had  been  Mr.  Bluebeard's  tutor  at  college, 
wrote  an  epitaph  in  the  most  pompous  yet  pathetic  Latin  : 
"  Siste,  viator !  moerens  conjux,  heu  !  quanto  minus  est 
cum  reliquis  versari  quam  tui  meminisse";  in  a  word, 
everything  that  is  usually  said  in  epitaphs.  A  bust  of 
the  departed  saint,  with  Virtue  mourning  over  it,  stood 
over  the  epitaph,  surrounded  by  medallions  of  his  wives, 
and  one  of  these  medallions  had  as  yet  no  name  in  it,  nor 
(the  epitaph  said)  could  the  widow  ever  be  consoled  until 
her  own  name  was  inscribed  there.  "  For  then  I  shall 
be  with  him.  In  coelo  quies,"  she  would  say,  throwing 
up  her  fine  eyes  to  heaven,  and  quoting  the  enormous 
words  of  the  hatchment  which  was  put  up  in  the  church, 
and  over  Bluebeard's  hall,  where  the  butler,  the  house- 
keeper, the  footman,  the  housemaid,  and  scullions,  were 
all  in  the  profoundest  mourning.  The  keeper  went  out 
to  shoot  birds  in  a  crape  band ;  nay,  the  very  scarecrows 
in  the  orchard  and  fruit-garden  were  ordered  to  be 
dressed  in  black. 

Sister  Anne  was  the  only  person  who  refused  to  wear 
black.  Mrs.  Bluebeard  would  have  parted  with  her,  but 
she  had  no  other  female  relative.  Her  father,  it  may  be 
remembered  by  readers  of  the  former  part  of  her  Me- 
moirs, had  married  again,  and  the  mother-in-law  and 
Mrs.  Bluebeard,  as  usual,  hated  each  other  furiously. 
Mrs.  Shacabac  had  come  to  the  hall  on  a  visit  of  condo- 
lence ;  but  the  widow  was  so  rude  to  her  on  the  second 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  65 

day  of  the  visit  that  the  step-mother  quitted  the  house  in 
a  fury.  As  for  the  Bluebeards,  of  course  they  hated  the 
widow.  Had  not  Mr.  Bluebeard  settled  every  shilling 
upon  her  ?  and,  having  no  children  by  his  former  mar- 
riage, her  property,  as  I  leave  you  to  fancy,  was  pretty 
handsome.  So  sister  Anne  was  the  only  female  relative 
whom  Mrs.  Bluebeard  would  keep  near  her ;  and,  as  we 
all  know,  a  woman  mvst  have  a  female  relative  under 
any  circumstances  of  pain,  or  pleasure,  or  profit, —  when 
she  is  married,  or  when  she  is  widowed,  or  when  she  is 
in  a  delicate  situation.  But  let  us  continue  our  story. 

"  I  will  never  wear  mourning  for  that  odious  wretch, 
sister !  "  Anne  would  cry. 

"  I  will  trouble  you,  Miss  Anne,  not  to  use  such  words 
in  my  presence  regarding  the  best  of  husbands,  or  to  quit 
the  room  at  once !  "  the  widow  would  answer. 

"  I  'm  sure  it 's  no  great  pleasure  to  sit  in  it.  I  won- 
der you  don't  make  use  of  the  closet,  sister,  where  the 
other  Mrs.  Bluebeards  are." 

"Impertinence!  they  were  all  embalmed  by  M.  Gan- 
nal.  How  dare  you  report  the  monstrous  calumnies  re- 
garding the  best  of  men  ?  Take  down  the  family  Bible, 
and  read  what  my  blessed  saint  says  of  his  wives,  —  read 
it  written  in  his  own  hand :  — 

"  *  Friday,  June  20.  — Married  my  beloved  wife,  Anna  Ma- 
ria Scrogginsia. 

" '  Saturday,  August  1.  —  A  bereaved  husband  has  scarcely 
strength  to  write  down  in  this  chronicle  that  the  dearest  of 
wives,  Anna  Maria  Scrogginsia,  expired  this  day  of  sore 
throat.' 

"  There !  can  anything  be  more  convincing  than  that  ? 
Read  again  :  — 

£ 


66  BLUEBEAKD'S  GHOST. 

" '  Tuesday,  Sept.  1.  —  This  day  I  led  to  the  hymeneal 
altar  my  soul's  blessing,  Louisa  Matilda  Hopkinson.  May 
this  angel  supply  the  place  of  her  I  have  lost ! 

"  '  Wednesday,  October  5.  —  O,  Heavens !  pity  the  distrac- 
tion of  a  wretch  who  is  obliged  to  record  the  ruin  of  his  dear- 
est hopes  and  affections !  This  day  my  adored  Louisa  Matilda 
Hopkinson  gave  up  the  ghost !  A  complaint  of  the  head  and 
shoulders  was  the  sudden  cause  of  the  event  which  has  ren- 
dered the  unhappy  subscriber  the  most  miserable  of  men. 

" '  BLUEBEARD.' 

"  Every  one  of  the  women  are  calendared  in  this  de- 
lightful, this  pathetic,  this  truly  virtuous  and  tender  way ; 
and  can  you  suppose  that  a  man  who  wrote  such  senti- 
ments could  be  a  murderer,  miss  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  did  not  kill  them,  then  ?  " 
said  Anne. 

"  Gracious,  goodness,  Anne,  kill  them !  they  died  all 
as  naturally  as  I  hope  you  will.  My  blessed  husband 
was  an  angel  of  goodness  and  kindness  to  them.  Was  it 
his  fault  that  the  doctors  could  not  cure  their  maladies  ? 
No,  that  it  was  n't !  and  when  they  died  the  inconsolable 
husband  had  their  bodies  embalmed  in  order  that  on  this 
side  of  the  grave  he  might  never  part  from  them." 

"  And  why  did  he  take  you  up  in  the  tower,  pray  ?  and 
why  did  you  send  me  in  such  a  hurry  to  the  leads  ?  and 
why  did  he  sharpen  his  long  knife,  and  roar  out  to  you  to 

COME  DOWN  ?  " 

"  Merely  to  punish  me  for  my  curiosity,  —  the  dear, 
good,  kind,  excellent  creature ! "  sobbed  the  widow,  over- 
powered with  affectionate  recollections  of  her  lord's  at- 
tentions to  her. 

"  I  wish,"  said  sister  Anne,  sulkily,  "  that  I  had  not 
been  in  such  a  hurry  in  summoning  my  brothers." 

*  Ah  !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Bluebeard,  with  a  •  harrowing 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  67 

scream,  "  don't,  —  don't  recall  that  horrid,  fatal  day, 
miss !  If  you  had  not  misled  your  brothers,  my  poor, 
dear,  darling  Bluebeard  would  still  be  in  life,  still  —  still 
the  soul's  joy  of  his  bereaved  Fatima ! " 

Whether  it  is  that  all  wives  adore  husbands  when  the 
latter  are  no  more,  or  whether  it  is  that  Fatima's  version 
of  the  story  is  really  the  correct  one,  and  that  the  com- 
mon impression  against  Bluebeard  is  an  odious  prejudice, 
and  that  he  no  more  murdered  his  wives  than  you  and  I 
have,  remains  yet  to  be  proved,  and,  indeed,  does  not 
much  matter  for  the  understanding  of  the  rest  of  Mrs. 
B.'s  adventures.  And  though  people  will  say  that 
Bluebeard's  settlement  of  his  whole  fortune  on  his  wife, 
in  event  of  survivorship,  was  a  mere  act  of  absurd 
mystification,  seeing  that  he  was  fully  determined  to  cut 
her  head  off  after  the  honeymoon,  yet  the  best  test  of  his 
real  intentions  is  the  profound  grief  which  the  widow 
manifested  for  his  death,  and  the  fact  that  he  left  her 
mighty  well  to  do  in  the  world. 

If  any  one  were  to  leave  you  or  me  a  fortune,  my  dear 
friend,  would  we  be  too  anxious  to  rake  up  the  how  and 
the  why  ?  Pooh !  pooh  !  we  would  take  it  and  make  no 
bones  about  it,  and  Mrs.  Bluebeard  did  likewise.  Her 
husband's  family,  it  is  true,  argued  the  point  with  her, 
and  said,  "Madam,  you  must  perceive  that  Mr.  Blue- 
beard never  intended  the  fortune  for  you,  as  it  was  his 
fixed  intention  to  chop  off  your  head !  It  is  clear  that 
he  meant  to  leave  his  money  to  his  blood  relations,  there- 
fore you  ought  in  equity  to  hand  it  over."  But  she  sent 
them  all  off  with  a  flea  in  their  ears,  as  the  saying  is,  and 
said,  "Your  argument  may  be  a  very  good  one,  but  I 
will,  if  you  please,  keep  the  money."  And  she  ordered 
the  mourning  as  we  have  before  shown,  and  indulged  in 


68  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

grief,  and  exalted  everywhere  the  character  of  the  de- 
ceased. If  any  one  would  but  leave  me  a  fortune  what  a 
funeral  and  what  a  character  I  would  give  him ! 

Bluebeard  Hall  is  situated,  as  we  all  very  well  know, 
in  a  remote  country  district,  and,  although  a  fine  residence, 
is  remarkably  gloomy  and  lonely.  To  the  widow's  sus- 
ceptible mind,  after  the  death  of  her  darling  husband,  the 
place  became  intolerable.  The  walk,  the  lawn,  the  foun- 
tain, the  green  glades  of  park  over  which  frisked  the 
dappled  deer,  all,  —  all  recalled  the  memory  of  her  be- 
loved. It  was  but  yesterday  that,  as  they  roamed  through 
the  park  in  the  calm  summer  evening,  her  Bluebeard 
pointed  out  to  the  keeper  the  fat  buck  he  was  to  kill. 
"  Ah !  "  said  the  widow,  with  tears  in  her  fine  eyes,  "  the 
artless  stag  was  shot  down,  the  haunch  was  cut  and  roast- 
ed, the  jelly  had  been  prepared  from  the  currant-bushes 
in  the  garden  that  he  loved,  but  my  Bluebeard  never  ate 
of  the  venison !  Look,  Anna  sweet,  pass  we  the  old  oak 
hall ;  't  is  hung  with  trophies  won  by  him  in  the  chase, 
with  pictures  of  the  noble  race  of  Bluebeard  !  Look  !  by 
the  fireplace  there  is  the  gig-whip,  his  riding-whip,  the 
spud  with  which  you  know  he  used  to  dig  the  weeds  out 
of  the  terrace-walk ;  in  that  drawer  are  his  spurs,  his 
whistle,  his  visiting-cards,  with  his  dear,  dear  name  en- 
graven upon  them !  There  are  the  bits  of  string  that 
he  used  to  cut  off  the  parcels  and  keep  because  string  was 
always  useful ;  his  button-hook,  and  there  is  the  peg  on 
which  he  used  to  hang  his  h — h — hat !  " 

Uncontrollable  emotions,  bursts  of  passionate  tears, 
would  follow  these  tender  reminiscences  of  the  widow; 
and  the  long  and  short  of  the  matter  was,  that  she  was 
determined  to  give  up  Bluebeard  Hall  and  live  else- 
where ;  her  love  for  the  memory  of  the  deceased,  she 
said,  rendered  the  place  too  wretched. 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  69 

Of  course  an  envious  and  sneering  world  said  that  she 
was  tired  of  the  country  and  wanted  to  marry  again ;  but 
she  little  heeded  its  taunts,  and  Anne,  who  hated  her  step- 
mother and  could  not  live  at  home,  was  fain  to  accompany 
her  sister  to  the  town  where  the  Bluebeards  have  had  for 
many  years  a  very  large,  genteel,  old-fashioned  house.  So 
she  went  to  the  town-house,  where  they  lived  and  quar- 
relled pretty  much  as  usual;  and  though  Anne  often 
threatened  to  leave  her  and  go  to  a  boarding-house,  of 
which  there  were  plenty  in  the  place,  yet  after  all  to  live 
with  her  sister,  and  drive  out  in  the  carriage  with  the 
footman  and  coachman  in  mourning,  and  the  lozenge  on* 
the  panels,  with  the  Bluebeard  and  Shacabac  arms  quar- 
tered on  it,  was  far  more  respectable,  and  so  the  lovely 
sisters  continued  to  dwell  together. 

For  a  lady  under  Mrs.  Bluebeard's  circumstances  the 
town-house  had  other  and  peculiar  advantages.  Besides 
being  an  exceedingly  spacious  and  dismal  brick  building, 
with  a  dismal  iron  railing  in  front,  and  long  dismal  thin 
windows  with  little  panes  of  glass,  it  looked  out  into  the 
churchyard  where,  time  out  of  mind,  between  two  yew- 
trees,  one  of  which  is  cut  into  the  form  of  a  peacock,  while 
the  other  represents  a  dumb-waiter,  it  looked  into  the 
churchyard  where  the  monument  of  the  late  Bluebeard 
was  placed  over  the  family  vault.  It  was  the  first  thing 
the  widow  saw  from  her  bedroom  window  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  't  was  sweet  to  watch  at  night  from  the  parlor 
the  pallid  moonlight  lighting  up  the  bust  of  the  departed, 
and  Virtue  throwing  great  black  shadows  athwart  it. 
Polyanthuses,  rhododendra,  ranunculuses,  and  other  flow- 
ers with  the  largest  names  and  of  the  most  delightful 
odors,  were  planted  within  the  little  iron  railing  that  in- 


70  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

closed  the  last  resting-place  of  the  Bluebeards ;  and  the 
beadle  was  instructed  to  half-kill  any  little  boys  who 
might  be  caught  plucking  these  sweet  testimonials  of  a 
wife's  affection. 

Over  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room  hung  a  full- 
length  of  Mr.  Bluebeard,  by  Ticklegill,  R.A.,  in  a  militia 
uniform,  frowning  down  upon  the  knives  and  forks  and 
silver  trays.  Over  the  mantel-piece  he  was  represented 
in  a  hunting  costume  on  his  favorite  horse ;  there  was  a 
sticking-plaster  silhouette  of  him  in  the  widow's  bedroom, 
and  a  miniature  in  the  drawing-room,  where  he  was  drawn 
in  a  gown  of  black  and  gold,  holding  a  gold-tasselled 
trencher  cap  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  pointing 
to  a  diagram  of  Pons  Asinorum.  This  likeness  was  taken 
when  he  was  a  fellow-commoner  at  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge,  and  before  the  growth  of  that  blue  beard 
which  was  the  ornament  of  his  manhood,  and  a  part  of 
which  now  formed  a  beautiful  blue  neck-chain  for  his  be- 
reaved wife. 

Sister  Anne  said  the  town-house  was  even  more  dismal 
than  the  country-house,  for  there  was  pure  air  at  the  Hall, 
and  it  was  pleasanter  to  look  out  on  a  park  than  on  a 
churchyard,  however  fine  the  monuments  might  be.  But 
the  widow  said  she  was  a  light-minded  hussy,  and  per- 
sisted as  usual  in  her  lamentations  and  mourning.  The 
only  male  whom  she  would  admit  within  her  doors  was 
the  parson  of  the  parish,  who  read  sermons  to  her ;  and, 
as  his  reverence  was  at  least  seventy  years  old,  Anne, 
though  she  might  be  ever  so  much  minded  to  fall  in  love, 
had  no  opportunity  to  indulge  her  inclination;  and  the 
town-people,  scandalous  as  they  might  be,  could  not  find 
a  word  to  say  against  the  liaison  of  the  venerable  man 
and  the  heart-stricken  widow. 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  71 

All  other  company  she  resolutely  refused.  When  the 
players  were  in  the  town,  the  poor  manager,  who  came  to 
beg  her  to  bespeak  a  comedy,  was  thrust  out  of  the  gates 
by  the  big  butler.  Though  there  were  balls,  card-parties, 
and  assemblies,  Widow  Bluebeard  would  never  subscribe 
to  one  of  them ;  and  even  the  officers,  those  all-conquering 
heroes  who  make  such  ravages  in  ladies'  hearts,  and  to 
whom  all  ladies'  doors  are  commonly  open,  could  never 
get  an  entry  into  the  widow's  house.  Captain  Whisker- 
field  strutted  for  three  weeks  up  and  down  before  her 
house,  and  had  not  the  least  effect  upon  her.  Captain 
O'Grady  (of  an  Irish  regiment)  attempted  to  bribe  the 
servants,  and  one  night  actually  scaled  the  garden  wall ; 
but  all  that  he  got  was  his  foot  in  a  man-trap,  not  to  men- 
tion being  dreadfully  scarified  by  the  broken  glass ;  and 
so  he  never  made  love  any  more.  Finally,  Captain 
Blackbeard,  whose  whiskers  vied  in  magnitude  with  those 
of  the  deceased  Bluebeard  himself,  although  he  attended 
church  regularly  every  week,  —  he  who  had  not  darkened 
the  doors  of  a  church  for  ten  years  before,  —  even  Captain 
Blackbeard  got  nothing  by  his  piety ;  and  the  widow  never 
once  took  her  eyes  off  her  book  to  look  at  him.  The 
barracks  were  in  despair;  and  Captain  Whiskerfield's 
tailor,  who  had  supplied  him  with  new  clothes  in  order  to 
win  the  widow's  heart,  ended  by  clapping  the  Captain 
into  jail. 

His  reverence  the  parson  highly  applauded  the  widow's 
conduct  to  the  officers ;  but,  being  himself  rather  of  a 
social  turn,  and  fond  of  a  good  dinner  and  a  bottle,  he 
represented  to  the  lovely  mourner  that  she  should  endeav- 
or to  divert  her  grief  by  a  little  respectable  society,  and 
recommended  that  she  should  from  time  to  time  entertain 
a  few  grave  and  sober  persons  whom  he  would  present  to 


72  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

her.  As  Dr.  Sly  had  an  unbounded  influence  over  the 
fair  mourner,  she  acceded  to  his  desires ;  and  accordingly 
he  introduced  to  her  house  some  of  the  most  venerable 
and  worthy  of  his  acquaintance,  —  all  married  people, 
however,  so  that  the  widow  should  not  take  the  least 
alarm. 

It  happened  that  the  doctor  had  a  nephew,  who  was  a 
lawyer  in  London,  and  this  gentleman  came  dutifully  in 
the  long  vacation  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  reverend  uncle. 
"  He  is  none  of  your  roystering,  dashing  young  fellows," 
said  his  reverence ;  "  he  is  the  delight  of  his  mamma  and 
sisters ;  he  never  drinks  anything  stronger  than  tea ;  he 
never  missed  church  thrice  a  Sunday  for  these  twenty 
years  ;  and  I  hope,  my  dear  and  amiable  madam,  that  you 
will  not  object  to  receive  this  pattern  of  young  men  for 
the  sake  of  your  most  devoted  friend,  his  uncle." 

The  widow  consented  to  receive  Mr.  Sly.  He  was  not 
a  handsome  man  certainly.  "  But  what  does  that  mat- 
ter ?  "  said  the  doctor ;  "  he  is  good,  and  virtue  is  better 
than  all  the  beauty  of  all  the  dragoons  in  the  Queen's 
service." 

Mr.  Sly  came  there  to  dinner,  and  he  came  to  tea ;  and 
he  drove  out  with  the  widow  in  the  carriage  with  the 
lozenge  on  it ;  and  at  church  he  handed  the  psalm-book ; 
and,  in  short,  he  paid  her  every  attention  which  could  be 
expected  from  so  polite  a  young  gentleman. 

At  this  the  town  began  to  .talk,  as  people  in  towns  will. 
"  The  doctor  kept  all  bachelors  out  of  the  widow's  house," 
said  they,  "  in  order  that  that  ugly  nephew  of  his  may 
have  the  field  entirely  to  himself."  These  speeches  were 
of  course  heard  by  sister  Anne,  and  the  little  minx  was 
not  a  little  glad  to  take  advantage  of  them,  in  order  to 
induce  her  sister  to  see  some  more  cheerful  company. 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  73 

The  fact  is,  the  young  hussy  loved  a  dance  or  a  game 
at  cards  much  more  than  a  humdrum  conversation  over 
a  tea-table;  and  so  she  plied  her  sister  day  and  night 
with  hints  as  to  the  propriety  of  opening  her  house,  re- 
ceiving the  gentry  of  the  county,  and  spending  her  for- 
tune. 

To  this  point  the  widow  at  length,  though  with  many 
sighs  and  vast  unwillingness,  acceded ;  and  she  went  so 
far  as  to  order  a  very  becoming  half-mourning,  in  which 
all  the  world  declared  she  looked  charming.  "  I  carry," 
said  she,  "  my  blessed  Bluebeard  in  my  heart,  —  that  is 
in  the  deepest  mourning  for  him,  and  when  the  heart 
grieves  there  is  no  need  of  outward  show." 

So  she  issued  cards  for  a  little  quiet  tea  and  supper, 
and  several  of  the  best  families  in  the  town  and  neigh- 
borhood attended  her  entertainment.  It  was  followed  by 
another  and  another ;  and  at  last  Captain  Blackbeard 
was  actually  introduced,  though,  of  course,  he  came  in 
plain  clothes. 

Dr.  Sly  and  his  nephew  never  could  abide  the  captain. 
"They  had  heard  some  queer  stories,"  they  said,  "about 
proceedings  in  barracks.  Who  was  it  that  drank  three 
bottles  at  a  sitting  ?  who  had  a  mare  that  ran  for  the 
plate  ?  and  why  was  it  that  Dolly  Coddlins  left  the  town 
so  suddenly  ?  "  Mr.  Sly  turned  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes 
as  his  uncle  asked  these  questions,  and  sighed  for  the 
wickedness  of  the  world.  But  for  all  that  he  was  de- 
lighted, especially  at  the  anger  which  the  widow  mani- 
fested when  the  Dolly  Coddlins'  affair  was  hinted  at. 
She  was  furious,  and  vowed  she  would  never  see  the 
wretch  again.  The  lawyer  and  his  uncle  were  charmed. 
O  shortsighted  lawyer  and  parson,  do  you  think  Mrs. 
Bluebeard  would  have  been  so  angry  if  she  had  not  been 


74  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

jealous  ?  —  do  you  think  she  would  have  been  jealous  if 
she  had  not  ....  had  not  what  ?  She  protested  that 
she  no  more  cared  for  the  captain  than  she  did  for  one  of 
her  footmen  ;  but  the  next  time  he  called  she  would  not 
condescend  to  say  a  word  to  him. 

"  My  dearest  Miss  Anne,"  said  the  captain,  as  he  met 
her  in  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  (she  was  herself  dancing 
with  Ensign  Trippet),  "  what  is  the  matter  with  your 
lovely  sister?" 

"  Dolly  Coddlins  is  the  matter,"  said  Miss  Anne.  "  Mr. 
Sly  has  told  all " ;  and  she  was  down  the  middle  in  a 
twinkling. 

The  captain  blushed  so  at  this  monstrous  insinuation 
that  any  one  could  see  how  incorrect  it  was.  He  made 
innumerable  blunders  in  the  dance,  and  was  all  the  time 
casting  such  ferocious  glances  at  Mr.  Sly  (who  did  not 
dance,  but  sat  by  the  widow  and  ate  ices),  that  his  part- 
ner thought  he  was  mad,  and  that  Mr.  Sly  became  very 
uneasy. 

When  the  dance  was  over,  he  came  to  pay  his  respects 
to  the  widow,  and,  in  so  doing,  somehow  trod  so  violently 
on  Mr.  Sly's  foot  that  that  gentleman  screamed  with  pain, 
and  presently  went  home.  But  though  he  was  gone  the 
widow  was  not  a  whit  more  gracious  to  Captain  Black- 
beard.  She  requested  Mr.  Trippet  to  order  her  carriage 
that  night,  and  went  home  without  uttering  one  single 
word  to  Captain  Blackbeard. 

The  next  morning,  and  with  a  face  of  preternatural 
longitude,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Sly  paid  a  visit  to  the  widow. 
"  The  wickedness  and  bloodthirstiness  of  the  world," 
said  he,  "  increase  every  day.  O  my  dear  madam,  what 
monsters  do  we  meet  in  it,  —  what  wretches,  what  assas- 
sins, are  allowed  to  go  abroad !  Would  you  believe  it, 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  75 

that  this  morning,  as  my  nephew  was  taking  his  peaceful 
morning  meal,  one  of  the  ruffians  from  the  barracks  pre- 
sented himself  with  a  challenge  from  Captain  Black- 
beard  ?  " 

"  Is  he  hurt  ?  "  screamed  the  widow. 

"  No,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  Frederick  is  not  hurt. 
And  oh,  what  a  joy  it  will  be  to  him  to  think  you  have 
that  tender  solicitude  for  his  welfare  ! " 

"  You  know  I  have  always  had  the  highest  respect 
for  him,"  said  the  widow ;  who,  when  she  screamed,  was 
in  truth  thinking  of  somebody  else.  But  the  doctor  did 
not  choose  to  interpret  her  thoughts  in  that  way,  and  gave 
all  the  benefit  of  them  to  his  nephew. 

"  That  anxiety,  dearest  madam,  which  you  express 
for  him  emboldens  me,  encourages  me,  authorizes  me,  to, 
press  a  point  upon  you  which  I  am  sure  must  have  en- 
tered your  thoughts  ere  now.  The  dear  youth  in  whom 
you  have  shown  such  an  interest  lives  but  for  you  !  .Yes, 
fair  lady,  start  not  at  hearing  that  his  sole  affections  are 
yours  ;  and  with  what  pride  shall  I  carry  to  him  back 
the  news  that  he  is  not  indifferent  to  you  ! " 

"  And  they  going  to  fight  ? "  continued  the  lady,  in 
a  breathless  state  of  alarm.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  dearest 
doctor,  prevent  the  horrid,  horrid  meeting.  Send  for  a 
magistrate's  warrant ;  do  anything  ;  but  do  not  suffer 
those  misguided  young  men  to  cut  each  other's  throats  ! " 

"  Fairest  lady,  I  fly  !  "  said  the  doctor,  and  went  back 
to  lunch  quite  delighted  with  the  evident  partiality  Mrs. 
Bluebeard  showed  for  his  nephew.  And  Mrs.  Bluebeard, 
not  content  with  exhorting  him  to  prevent  the  duel, 
rushed  to  Mr.  Pound,  the  magistrate,  informed  him  of  the 
facts,  got  out  warrants  against  both  Mr.  Sly  and  the  cap- 
tain, and  would  have  put  them  into  execution  ;  but  it  was 


76  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

discovered  that  the  former  gentleman  had  abruptly  left 
town,  so  that  the  constable  could  not  lay  hold  of  him. 

It  somehow,  however,  became  to  be  generally  known 
that  the  widow  Bluebeard  had  declared  herself  in  favor 
of  Mr.  Sly,  the  lawyer ;  that  she  had  fainted  when  told 
her  lover  was  about  to  fight  a  duel ;  finally,  that  she  had 
accepted  him,  and  would  marry  him  as  soon  as  the  quar- 
rel between  him  and  the  captain  was  settled.  Dr.  Sly, 
when  applied  to,  hummed  and  ha'd,  and  would  give  no  di- 
rect answer ;  but  he  denied  nothing,  and  looked  so  know- 
ing, that  all  the  world  was  certain  of  the  fact ;  and  the 
county  paper  next  week  stated  :  — 

-  "  We  understand  that  the  lovely  and  wealthy  Mrs.  Bl — 
b — rd  is  about  once  more  to  enter  the  bands  of  wedlock  with 
our  distinguished  townsman,  Frederick  S — y,  Esq.,  of  the 
Middle  Temple,  London.  The  learned  gentleman  left  town 
in  consequence  of  a  dispute  with  a  gallant  son  of  Mars,  which 
was  likely  to  have  led  to  warlike  results,  had  not  a  magistrate's 
warrant  intervened,  when  the  captain  was  bound  over  to  keep 
the  peace." 

In  fact,  as  soon  as  the  captain  was  so  bound  over,  Mr. 
Sly  came  back,  stating  that  he  had  quitted  the  town  not 
to  avoid  a  duel,  —  far  from  it,  but  to  keep  out  of  the  way 
of  the  magistrates,  and  give  the  captain  every  facility. 
He  had  taken  out  no  warrant ;  Tie  had  been  perfectly 
ready  to  meet  the  captain  ;  if  others  had  been  more  pru- 
dent, it  was  not  his  fault.  So  he  held  up  his  head,  and 
cocked  his  hat  with  the  most  determined  air ;  and  all  the 
lawyers'  clerks  in  the  place  were  quite  proud  of  their 
hero. 

As  for  Captain  Blackbeard,  his  rage  and  indignation 
may  be  imagined  ;  a  wife  robbed  from  him,  his  honor  put 
in  question  by  an  odious,  lanky,  squinting  lawyer  !  He 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  77 

fell  ill  of  a  fever  incontinently ;  and  the  surgeon  was 
obliged  to  take  a  quantity  of  blood  from  him,  ten  times  the 
amount  of  which  he  swore  he  would  have  out  of  the  veins 
of  the  atrocious  Sly. 

The  announcement  in  the  Mercury,  however,  filled  the 
widow  with  almost  equal  indignation.  "  The  widow  of 
the  gallant  Bluebeard,"  she  said,  "  marry  an  odious  wretch 
who  lives  in  dingy  chambers  in  the  Middle  Temple  !  Send 
for  Dr.  Sly."  The  doctor  came ;  she  rated  him  soundly, 
asked  him  how  he  dared  set  abroad  such  calumnies  con- 
cerning her ;  ordered  him  to  send  his  nephew  back  to 
London  at  once ;  and,  as  he  valued  her  esteem,  as  he 
valued  the  next  presentation  to  a  fat  living  which  lay  in 
her  gift,  to  contradict  everywhere,  and  in  the  fullest 
terms,  the  wicked  report  concerning  her. 

"  My  dearest  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  pulling  his  long- 
est face,  "  you  shall  be  obeyed.  The  poor  lad  shall  be 
acquainted  with  the  fatal  change  in  your  sentiments  ! " 

"  Change  in  my  sentiments,  Dr.  Sly  ! " 

"  With  the  destruction  of  his  hopes,  rather  let  me  say  ; 
and  Heaven  grant  that  the  dear  boy  have  strength  to  bear 
up  against  the  misfortune  which  comes  so  suddenly  upon 
him!" 

The  next  day  sister  Anne  came  with  a  face  full  of  care 
to  Mrs.  Bluebeard.  "  0  that  unhappy  lover  of  yours  ! " 
said  she. 

"  Is  the  captain  unwell  ?  "  exclaimed  the  widow. 

"  No,  it  is  the  other,"  answered  sister  Anne.  "  Poor, 
poor  Mr.  Sly !  He  made  a  will  leaving  you  all,  except 
five  pounds  a-year  to  his  laundress:  he  made  his  will, 
locked  his  door,  took  heart-rending  leave  of  his  uncle  at 
night,  and  this  morning  was  found  hanging  at  his  bed- 
post when  Sambo,  the  black  servant,  took  him  up  his 


78  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

water  to  shave.  l  Let  me  be  buried/  he  said, '  with  the 
pincushion  she  gave  me  and  the  locket  containing  her 
hair.'  Did  you  give  him  a  pincushion,  sister?  did  you 
give  him  a  locket  with  your  hair  ?  " 

"It  was  only  silver-gilt!"  sobbed  the  widow;  "and 
now,  O  Heavens !  I  have  killed  him ! "  The  heart-rend- 
ing nature  of  her  sobs  may  be  imagined  ;  but  they  were 
abruptly  interrupted  by  her  sister. 

"  Killed  him  ?  —  no  such  thing !  Sambo  cut  him  down 
when  he  was  as  black  in  the  face  as  the  honest  negro 
himself.  He  came  down  to  breakfast,  and  I  leave  you  to 
fancy  what  a  touching  meeting  took  place  between  the 
nephew  and  the  uncle." 

"  So  much  love  ! "  thought  the  widow.  "  What  a  pity 
he  squints  so !  If  he  would  but  get  his  eyes  put  straight, 

I  might  perhaps  • "  She  did  not  finish  the  sentence  : 

ladies  often  leave  this  sort  of  sentence  in  a  sweet  confu- 
sion. 

But  hearing  some  news  regarding  Captain  Blackbeard, 
whose  illness  and  blood-letting  were  described  to  her  most 
pathetically,  as  well  as  accurately,  by  the  Scotch  surgeon 
of  the  regiment,  her  feelings  of  compassion  towards  the 
lawyer  cooled  somewhat ;  and  when  Dr.  Sly  called  to  know 
if  she  would  condescend  to  meet  the  unhappy  youth,  she 
said,  in  rather  a  distrait  manner,  that  she  wished  him 
every  happiness ;  that  she  had  the  highest  regard  and 
respect  for  him ;  that  she  besought  him  not  to  think  any 
more  of  committing  the  dreadful  crime  which  would  have 
made  her  unhappy  forever ;  but  that  she  thought,  for  the 
sake  of  both  parties,  they  had  better  not  meet  until  Mr. 
Sly's  feelings  had  grown  somewhat  more  calm. 

"  Poor  fellow !  poor  fellow ! "  said  the  doctor,  "  may  he 
be  enabled  to  bear  his  frightful  calamity !  I  have  taken 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  79 

away  his  razors  from  him,  and  Sambo,  my  man,  never  lets 
him  out  of  his  sight." 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Bluebeard  thought  of  sending  a 
friendly  message  to  Dr.  Sly's,  asking  for  news  of  the 
health  of  his  nephew ;  but,  as  she  was  giving  her  orders 
on  that  subject  to  John  Thomas  the  footman,  it  happened 
that  the  captain  arrived,  and  so  Thomas  was  sent  down 
stairs  again.  And  the  captain  looked  so  delightfully  in- 
teresting with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  and  his  beautiful  black 
whiskers  curling  round  a  face  which  was  paler  than  usual, 
that  at  the  end  of  two  hours  the  widow  forgot  the  mes- 
sage altogether,  and,  indeed,  I  believe,  asked  the  captain 
whether  he  would  not  stop  and  dine.  Ensign  Trippet 
came,  too,  and  the  party  was  very  pleasant ;  and  the  mil- 
itary gentlemen  laughed  hugely  at  the  idea  of  the  lawyer 
having  been  cut  off  the  bedpost  by  the  black  servant, 
and  were  so  witty  on  the  subject,  that  the  widow  ended 
by  half  believing  that  the  bedpost  and  hanging  scheme 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Sly  was  only  a  feint,  —  a  trick  to  win 
her  heart.  Though  this,  to  be  sure,  was  not  agreed  to 
by  the  lady  without  a  pang,  for,  entre  nous,  to  hang  one's 
self  for  a  lady  is  no  small  compliment  to  her  attractions, 
and,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Bluebeard  was  rather  disappointed 
at  the  notion  that  the  hanging  was  not  a  bond  fide  stran- 
gulation. 

However,  presently  her  nerves  were  excited  again ; 
and  she  was  consoled  or  horrified,  as  the  case  may  be  (the 
reader  must  settle  the  point  according  to  his  ideas  and 
knowledge  of  woman-kind), — she  was  at  any  rate  dread- 
fully excited  by  the  receipt  of  a  billet  in  the  well-known 
clerk-like  ha^id  of  Mr.  Sly.  It  ran  thus :  — 

"  I  saw  you  through  your  dining-room  windows.  You 
were  hob-nobbing  with  Captain  Blackbeard.  You  looked 


80  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

rosy  and  well.     You  smiled.     You  drank  off  the  cham- 
pagne at  a  single  draught. 

"  I  can  bear  it  no  more.  Live  on,  smile  on,  and  be 
happy.  My  ghost  shall  repine,  perhaps,  at  your  happi- 
ness with  another,  —  but  in  life  I  should  go  mad  were  I 
to  witness  it. 

"  It  is  best  that  I  should  be  gone. 

"  When  you  receive  this,  tell  my  uncle  to  drag  the  fish- 
pond at  the  end  of  Bachelor's  Acre.  His  black  servant 
Sambo  accompanies  me,  it  is  true.  But  Sambo  shall 
perish  with  me  should  his  obstinacy  venture  to  restrain 
me  from  my  purpose.  I  know  the  poor  fellow's  honesty 
well,  but  I  also  know  my  own  despair. 

"  Sambo  will  leave  a  wife  and  seven  children.  Be 
kind  to  those  orphan  mulattoes  for  the  sake  of 

"  FREDERICK." 

The  widow  gave  a  dreadful  shriek,  and  interrupted  the 
two  captains,  who  were  each  just  in  the  act  of  swallow- 
ing a  bumper  of  claret.  "  Fly  —  fly  —  save  him,"  she 
screamed;  "save  him,  monsters,  ere  it  is  too  late! 
Drowned  !  —  Frederick !  —  Bachelor's  "Wa — ."  Syncope 
took  place,  and  the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  interrupted. 

Deucedly  disappointed  at  being  obliged  to  give  up 
their  wine,  the  two  heroes  seized  their  cocked  hats,  and 
went  towards  the  spot  which  the  widow  in  her  wild  ex- 
clamations of  despair  had  sufficiently  designated. 

Trippet  was  for  running  to  the  fish-pond  at  the  rate  of 
ten  miles  an  hour.  "  Take  it  easy,  my  good  fellow,"  said 
Captain  Blackbeard ;  "  running  is  unwholesome  after  din- 
ner. And,  if  that  squinting  scoundrel  of  a  lawyer  does 
drown  himself,  I  sha'n't  sleep  any  the  worse.".  So  the  two 
gentlemen  walked  very  leisurely  on  towards  the  Bache- 
lor's Walk ;  and,  indeed,  seeing  on  their  way  thither  Ma- 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  81 

jor  Macabaw  looking  out  of  the  window  at  his  quarters 
and  smoking  a  cigar,  they  went  up  stairs  to  consult  the 
major,  as  also  a  bottle  of  Schiedam  he  had. 

"  They  come  not ! "  said  the  widow,  when  restored  to 
herself.  "  O  Heavens  !  grant  that  Frederick  is  safe ! 
Sister  Anne,  go  up  to  the  leads  and  look  if  anybody  is 
coming."  And  up,  accordingly,  to  the  garrets  sister 
Anne  mounted.  "  Do  you  see  anybody  coming,  sister 
Anne?" 

"  I  see  Dr.  Drench's  little  boy,"  said  sister  Anne ;  "  he 
is  leaving  a  pill  and  draught  at  Miss  Molly  Grub's." 

"  Dearest  sister  Anne,  don't  you  see  any  one  coming?" 
shouted  the  widow  once  again. 

"  I  see  a  flock  of  dust,  —  no !  a  cloud  of  sheep.  Pshaw ! 
I  see  the  London  coach  coming  in.  There  are  three  out- 
sides,  and  the  guard  has  flung  a  parcel  to  Mrs.  Jenkins's 
maid." 

"  Distraction !     Look  once  more,  sister  Anne." 

"  I  see  a  crowd,  —  a  shutter,  —  a  shutter  with  a  man  on 
it,  —  a  beadle,  —  forty  little  boys,  —  Gracious  goodness ! 
what  can  it  be  ? "  and  down  stairs  tumbled  sister  Anne, 
and  was  looking  out  of  the  parlor-window  by  her  sister's 
side,  when  the  crowd  she  had  perceived  from  the  garret 
passed  close  by  them. 

At  the  head  walked  the  beadle,  slashing  about  at  the 
little  boys. 

Two  scores  of  these  followed  and  surrounded 

A  SHUTTER  carried  by  four  men. 

On  the  shutter  lay  Frederick  !  He  was  ghastly  pale ; 
his  hair  was  draggled  over  his  face ;  his  clothes  stuck 
tight  to  him  on  account  of  the  wet ;  streams  of  water  gur- 
gled down  the  shutter-sides.  But  he  was  not  dead  !  Ho 
turned  one  eye  round  towards  the  window  where  Mrs. 

4*  p 


82  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

Bluebeard  sat,  and  gave  her  a  look  which  she  never 
could  forget. 

Sambo  brought  up  the  rear  of  the  procession.  He  was 
quite  wet  through ;  and  if  anything  would  have  put  his 
hair  out  of  curl,  his  ducking  would  have  done  so.  But, 
as  he  was  not  a  gentleman,  he  was  allowed  to  walk  home 
on  foot,  and  as  he  passed  the  widow's  window,  he  gave 
her  one  dreadful  glance  with  his  goggling  black  eyes,  and 
moved  on,  pointing  with  his  hands  to  the  shutter. 

John  Thomas,  the  footman,  was  instantly  despatched 
to  Dr.  Sly's  to  have  news  of  the  patient.  There  was  no 
shilly-shallying  now.  He  came  back  in  half  an  hour  to 
say  that  Mr.  Frederick  flung  himself  into  Bachelor's 
Acre  fish-pond  with  Sambo,  had  been  dragged  out  with 
difficulty,  had  been  put  to  bed,  and  had  a  pint  of  white 
wine  whey,  and  was  pretty  comfortable.  "  Thank  Heav- 
en ! "  said  the  widow,  and  gave  John  Thomas  a  seven- 
shilling  piece,  and  sat  down  with  a  lightened  heart  to  tea. 
"What  a  heart!"  said  she  to  sister  Anne.  "And  0, 
what  a  pity  it  is  that  he  squints  ! " 

Here  the  two  captains  arrived.  They  had  not  been  to 
the  Bachelor's  Walk ;  they  had  remained  at  Major  Maca- 
baw's  consulting  the  Schiedam.  They  had  made  up  their 
minds  what  to  say.  "  Hang  the  fellow !  he  will  never 
have  the  pluck  to  drown  himself,"  said  Captain  Black- 
beard.  "  Let  us  argue  on  that,  as  we  may  safely." 

"  My  sweet  lady,"  said  he,  accordingly,  "  we  have  had 
the  pond  dragged.  No  Mr.  Sly.  And  the  fisherman 
who  keeps  the  punt  assures  us  that  he  has  not  been  there 
all  day." 

"  Audacious  falsehood ! "  said  the  widow,  her  eyes 
flashing  fire.  "  Go,  heartless  man !  who  dares  to  trifle 
thus  with  the  feelings  of  a  respectable  and  unprotected 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  83 

woman.  Go,  sir,  you  're  only  fit  for  the  love  of  a  — 
Dolly  —  Coddlins ! "  She  pronounced  the  Coddlins  with 
a  withering  sarcasm  that  struck  the  captain  aghast ;  and, 
sailing  out  of  the  room,  she  left  her  tea  untasted,  and  did 
not  wish  either  of  the  military  gentlemen  good-night. 

But,  gentles,  an'  ye  know  the  delicate  fibre  of  wom- 
an's heart,  ye  will  not  in  very  sooth  believe  that  such 
events  as  those  we  have  described  —  such  tempests  of 
passion  —  fierce  winds  of  woe  —  blinding  lightnings  of 
tremendous  joy  and  tremendous  grief —  could  pass  over 
one  frail  flower  and  leave  it  all  unscathed.  No !  Grief 
kills  as  joy  doth.  Doth  not  the  scorching  sun  nip  the 
rose-bud  as  well  as  the  bitter  wind  ?  As  Mrs.  Sigourney 
sweetly  sings :  — 

"  Ah!  the  heart  is  a  soft  and  a  delicate  thing; 
Ah !  the  heart  is  a  lute  with  a  thrilling  string; 
A  spirit  that  floats  on  a  gossamer's  wing ! " 

Such  was  Fatima's  heart.  In  a  word,  the  preceding 
events  had  a  powerful  effect  upon  her  nervous  system, 
and  she  was  ordered  much  quiet  and  sal-volatile  by  her 
skilful  medical  attendant,  Dr.  Glauber. 

To  be  so  ardently,  passionately  loved  as  she  was,  to 
know  that  Frederick  had  twice  plunged  into  death  from 
attachment  to  her,  was  to  awaken  in  her  bosom  "  a  thrill- 
ing string,"  indeed !  Could  she  witness  such  attachment, 
and  not  be  touched  by  it  ?  She  was  touched  by  it,  —  she 
was  influenced  by  the  virtues,  by  the  passion,  by  the  mis- 
fortunes of  Frederick;  but  then  he  was  so  abominably 
ugly  that  she  could  not  —  she  could  not  consent  to  be- 
come his  bride ! 

She  told  Dr.  Sly  so.  "  I  respect  and  esteem  your 
nephew,"  said  she ;  "  but  my  resolve  is  made.  I  will 
continue  faithful  to  that  blessed  saint  whose  monument  is 


84  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

ever  before  my  eyes  "  (she  pointed  to  the  churchyard  as 
she  spoke).  "  Leave  this  poor  tortured  heart  in  quiet. 
It  has  already  suffered  more  than  most  hearts  could  bear. 
I  will  repose  under  the  shadow  of  that  tomb  until  I  am 
called  to  rest  within  it,  —  to  rest  by  the  side  of  my  Blue- 
beard!" 

The  ranunculuses,  rhododendra,  and  polyanthuses,  which 
ornamented  that  mausoleum,  had  somehow  been  suffered 
to  run  greatly  to  seed  during  the  last  few  months,  and  it 
was  with  no  slight  self-accusation  that  she  acknowledged 
this  fact  on  visiting  the  "  garden  of  the  grave,"  as  she 
called  it ;  and  she  scolded  the  beadle  soundly  for  neglect- 
ing his  duty  towards  it.  He  promised  obedience  for  the 
future,  dug  out  all  the  weeds  that  were  creeping  round 
the  family  vault,  and  (having  charge  of  the  key)  entered 
that  awful  place,  and  swept  and  dusted  the  melancholy 
contents  of  the  tomb. 

Next  morning  the  widow  came  down  to  breakfast  look- 
ing very  pale.  She  had  passed  a  bad  night ;  she  had  had 
awful  dreams  ;  she  had  heard  a  voice  call  her  thrice  at 
midnight.  "  Pooh !  my  dear,  it 's  only  nervousness,"  said 
sceptical  sister  Anne. 

Here  John  Thomas,  the  footman,  entered,  and  said  the 
beadle  was  in  the  hall  looking  in  a  very  strange  way.  He 
had  been  about  the  house  since  day -break,  and  insisted 
on  seeing  Mrs.  Bluebeard.  "  Let  him  enter,"  said  that 
lady,  prepared  for  some  great  mystery.  The  beadle  came ; 
he  was  pale  as  death ;  his  hair  was  dishevelled,  and  his 
cocked  hat  out  of  order.  "  What  have  you  to  say  ?  "  said 
the  lady,  trembling. 

Before  beginning,  he  fell  down  on  his  knees. 

"  Yesterday,"  said  he,  "  according  to  your  ladyship's 
orders,  I  dug  up  the  flower-beds  of  the  family-vault,  dust- 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  85 

ed  the  vault  and  the  —  the  coffins  (added  he,  trembling) 
inside.  Me  and  John  Sexton  did  it  together,  and  polished 
up  the  plate  quite  beautiful." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  allude  to  it,"  cried  the 
widow,  turning  pale. 

"  Well,  my  lady,  I  locked  the  door,  came  away,  and 
found  in  my  hurry  —  for  I  wanted  to  beat  two  little  boys 
what  was  playing  at  marbles  on  Alderman  Paunch's 
monyment  —  I  found,  my  lady,  I  'd  forgot  my  cane. 

"  I  could  n't  get  John  Sexton  to  go  back  with  me  till 
this  morning,  and  I  did  n't  like  to  go  alone,  and  so  we 
went  this  morning  ;  and  what  do  you  think  I  found  ?  I 
found  his  honor's  coffin  turned  round,  and  the  cane  broke 
in  two.  Here  's  the  cane ! " 

"  Ah  !  "  screamed  the  widow,  "  take  it  away,  —  take  it 
away  ! " 

"  Well,  what  does  this  prove,"  said  sister  Anne,  "  but 
that  somebody  moved  the  coffin,  and  broke  the  cane  ?" 

"  Somebody  !  who  's  somebody  ?  "  said  the  beadle,  star- 
ing round  about  him.  And  all  of  a  sudden  he  started 
back  with  a  tremendous  roar,  that  made  the  ladies  scream 
and  all  the  glasses  on  the  sideboard  jingle,  and  cried, 
«  That's  the  man!" 

He  pointed  to  the  portrait  of  Bluebeard,  which  stood 
over  the  jingling  glasses  on  the  sideboard.  "  That 's  the 
man  I  saw  last  night  walking  round  the  vault,  as  I  'm  a 
living  sinner.  I  saw  him  a-walking  round  and  round,  and, 
when  I  went  up  to  speak  to  him,  I  'm  blessed  if  he  did  n't 
go  in  at  the  iron  gate,  which  opened  afore  him  like  —  like 
winking,  and  then  in  at  the  vault  door,  which  I  'd  double- 
locked,  my  lady,  and  bolted  inside,  I  '11  take  my  oath  on 
it!" 

"  Perhaps  you  had  given  him  the  key  ? "  suggested 
sister  Anne. 


86  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

"  It 's  never  been  out  of  my  pocket.  "  Here  it  is," 
cried  the  beadle ;  "  I  '11  have  no  more  to  do  with  it " ;  and 
he  flung  down  the  ponderous  key,  amidst  another  scream 
from  widow  Bluebeard. 

"  At  what  hour  did  you  see  him  ?  "  gasped  she. 

"  At  twelve  o'clock,  of  course." 

"  It  must  have  been  at  that  very  hour,"  said  she,  "  I 
heard  the  voice." 

"  What  voice  ?  "  said  Anne. 

"  A  voice  that  called  *  Fatima !  Fatima !  Fatima ! ' 
three  times  as  plain  as  ever  voice  did." 

"  It  did  n't  speak  to  me,"  said  the  beadle ;  "  it  only 
nodded  its  head,  and  wagged  its  head  and  beard." 

"  W — w — was  it  a  U — ue  bea?-d  ?  "  said  the  widow. 

"  Powder-blue,  ma'am,  as  I  've  a  soul  to  save ! " 

Doctor  Drench  was  of  course  instantly  sent  for.  But 
what  are  the  medicaments  of  the  apothecary  in  a  case 
where  the  grave  gives  up  its  dead  ?  Dr.  Sly  arrived,  and 
he  offered  ghostly  —  ah !  too  ghostly  —  consolation.  He 
said  he  believed  in  them.  His  own  grandmother  had  ap- 
peared to  his  grandfather  several  times  before  he  married 
again.  He  could  not  doubt  that  supernatural  agencies 
were  possible,  even  frequent. 

"  Suppose  he  were  to  appear  to  me  alone,"  ejaculated 
the  widow,  "  I  should  die  of  fright." 

The  doctor  looked  particularly  arch.  "  The  best  way 
in  these  cases,  my  dear  madam,"  said  he,  "  the  best  way 
for  unprotected  ladies  is  to  get  a  husband.  I  never  heard 
of  a  first  husband's  ghost  appearing  to  a  woman  and  her 
second  husband  in  my  life.  In  all  history  there  is  no 
account  of  one." 

"  Ah !  why  should  I  be  afraid  of  seeing  my  Bluebeard 
again?"  said  the  widow;  and  the  doctor  retired  quite 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  87 

pleased,  for  the  lady  was  evidently  thinking  of  a  second 
husband. 

"  The  captain  would  be  a  better  protector  for  me  cer- 
tainly than  Mr.  Sly,"  thought  the  lady,  with  a  sigh ;  "  but 
Mr.  Sly  will  certainly  kill  himself,  and  will  the  captain 
be  a  match  for  two  ghosts?  Sly  will  kill  himself;  but 
ah  !  the  captain  won't " ;  and  the  widow  thought  with 
pangs  of  bitter  mortification  of  Dolly  Coddlins.  How  — 
how  should  these  distracting  circumstances  be  brought  to 
an  end  ? 

She  retired  to  rest  that  night  not  without  a  tremor,  — 
to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  At  midnight  a  voice  was  heard 
in  her  room,  crying,  "  Fatima !  Fatima  !  Fatima ! "  in 
awful  accents.  The  doors  banged  to  and  fro,  the  bells 
began  to  ring,  the  maids  went  up  and  down  stairs  skurry- 
ing  and  screaming,  and  gave  warning  in  a  body.  John 
Thomas,  as  pale  as  death,  declared  that  he  found  Blue- 
beard's yeomanry  sword,  that  hung  in  the  hall,  drawn, 
and  on  the  ground ;  and  the  sticking-plaster  miniature  in 
Mr.  Bluebeard's  bedroom  was  found  turned  topsy-turvy ! 

"  It  is  some  trick,"  said  the  obstinate  and  incredulous 
sister  Anne.  "  To-night  I  will  come  and  sleep  with  you, 
sister."  And  the  night  came,  and  the  two  sisters  retired 
together. 

'T  was  a  wild  night.  The  wind  howling  without  went 
crashing  through  the  old  trees  of  the  old  rookery  round 
about  the  old  church.  The  long  bedroom  windows  went 
thump,  thumping ;  the  moon  could  be  seen  through  them 
lighting  up  the  graves  with  their  ghastly  shadows ;  the 
yew-tree,  cut  into  the  shape  of  a  bird,  looked  particularly 
dreadfully,  and  bent  and  swayed  as  if  it  would  peck 
something  off  that  other  yew-tree  which  was  of  the  shape 
of  a  dumb-waiter.  The  bells  at  midnight  began  to  ring 


88  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

as  usual,  the  doors  clapped,  jingle  — jingle  down  came  a 
suit  of  armor  in  the  hall,  and  a  voice  came  and  cried, 
"  Fatima !  Fatima !  Fatima !  look,  look,  look ;  the  tomb, 
the  tomb,  the  tomb !  " 

She  looked.  The  vault  door  was  open,  and  there  in 
the  moonlight  stood  Bluebeard,  exactly  as  he  was  repre- 
sented in  the  picture,  in  his  yeomanry  dress,  his  face 
frightfully  pale,  and  his  great  blue  beard  curling  over  his 
chest,  as  awful  as  Mr.  Muntz's. 

Sister  Anne  saw  the  vision  as  well  as  Fatima.  We 
shall  spare  the  account  of  their  terrors  and  screams. 
Strange  to  say,  John  Thomas,  who  slept  in  the  attic 
above  his  mistress's  bedroom,  declared  he  was  on  the 
watch  all  night,  and  had  seen  nothing  in  the  churchyard, 
and  heard  no  sort  of  voices  in  the  house. 

And  now  the  question  came,  What  could  the  ghost 
want  by  appearing  ?  "  Is  there  anything,"  exclaimed  the 
unhappy  and  perplexed  Fatima,  "  that  he  would  have  me 
do  ?  It  is  well  to  say  *  now,  now,  now/  and  to  shew  him- 
self; but  what  is  it  that  makes  my  blessed  husband  so 
uneasy  in  his  grave  ?  "  And  all  parties  consulted  agreed 
that  it  was  a  very  sensible  question. 

John  Thomas,  the  footman,  whose  excessive  terror  at 
the  appearance  of  the  ghost  had  procured  him  his  mis- 
tress's confidence,  advised  Mr.  Screw,  the  butler,  who 
communicated  with  Mrs.  Baggs,  the  housekeeper,  who 
condescended  to  impart  her  observations  to  Mrs.  Bustle, 
the  lady's-maid,  —  John  Thomas,  I  say,  decidedly  advised 
that  my  lady  should  consult  a  cunning  man.  There  was 
such  a  man  in  town ;  he  had  prophesied  who  should  mar- 
ry  his  (John  Thomas's)  cousin;  he  had  cured  Farmer 
Horn's  cattle,  which  were  evidently  bewitched ;  he  could 
raise  ghosts,  and  make  them  speak,  and  he  therefore 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  89 

was  the  very  person  to  be  consulted  in  the  present  junc- 
ture. 

"  What  nonsense  is  this  you  have  been  talking  to  the 
maids,  John  Thomas,  about  the  conjurer  who  lives  in  — 
in " 

"  In  Hangman's  Lane,  ma'am,  where  the  gibbet  used  to 
stand,"  replied  John,  who  was  bringing  in  the  muffins. 
"  It 's  no  nonsense,  my  lady.  Every  word  as  that  man 
says  comes  true,  and  he  knows  everything." 

"  I  desire  you  will  not  frighten  the  girls  in  the  servants' 
hall  with  any  of  those  silly  stories,"  said  the  widow ;  and 
the  meaning  of  this  speech  may,  of  course,  at  once  be 
guessed.  It  was  that  the  widow  meant  to  consult  the 
conjurer  that  very  night.  Sister  Anne  said  that  she 
would  never,  under  such  circumstances,  desert  her  dear 
Fatima.  John  Thomas  was  summoned  to  attend  the 
ladies  with  a  dark  lantern,  and  forth  they  set  on  their 
perilous  visit  to  the  conjurer  at  his  dreadful  abode  in 
Hangman's  Lane. 

***** 

What  took  place  at  that  frightful  interview  has  never 
been  entirely  known.  But  there  was  no  disturbance  in 
the  house  on  the  night  after.  The  bells  slept  quite  quiet- 
ly, the  doors  did  not  bang  in  the  least,  twelve  o'clock 
struck,  and  no  ghost  appeared  in  the  churchyard,  and  the 
whole  family  had  a  quiet  night.  The  widow  attributed 
this  to  a  sprig  of  rosemary  which  the  wizard  gave  her, 
and  a  horseshoe  which  she  flung  into  the  garden  round 
the  family  vault,  and  which  would  keep  any  ghost  quiet. 

It  happened  the  next  day  that,  going  to  her  milliner's, 
sister  Anne  met  a  gentleman  who  has  been  before  men- 
tioned in  this  story,  Ensign  Trippet  by  name ;  and,  in- 
deed, if  the  truth  must  be  known,  it  somehow  happened 


90  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

that  she  met  the  ensign  somewhere  every  day  of  the 
week. 

"  What  news  of  the  ghost,  my  dearest  Miss  Shaca- 
bac?"  said  he  (you  may  guess  on  what  terms  the  two 
young  people  were  by  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Trippet 
addressed  the  lady)  ;  "  has  Bluebeard's  ghost  frightened 
your  sister  to  any  more  fits,  or  set  the  bells  a-ringing  ?  " 

Sister  Anne,  with  a  very  grave  air,  told  him  that  he 
must  not  joke  on  so  awful  a  subject,  that  the  ghost  had 
been  laid  for  a  while,  that  a  cunning  man  had  told  her 
sister  things  so  wonderful  that  any  man  must  believe  in 
them  ;  that,  among  other  things,  he  had  shown  to  Fa- 
tima  her  future  husband. 

"  Had,"  said  the  ensign,  "  he  black  whiskers  and  a  red 
coat?" 

"  No,"  answered  Anne,  with  a  sigh,  "  he  had  red  whis- 
kers and  a  black  coat  ?  " 

"  It  can't  be  that  rascal  Sly !  "  cried  the  ensign.  But 
Anne  only  sighed  more  deeply,  and  would  not  answer  yes 
or  no.  "  You  may  tell  the  poor  captain,"  she  said,  "  there 
is  no  hope  for  him,  and  all  he  has  left  is  to  hang  him- 
self." 

"  He  shall  cut  the  throat  of  Sly  first,  though,"  replied 
Mr.  Trippet,  fiercely.  But  Anne  said  things  were  not 
decided  as  yet.  Fatima  was  exceedingly  restive,  and  un- 
willing to  acquiesce  in  the  idea  of  being  married  to  Mr. 
Sly;  she  had  asked  for  further  authority.  The  wizard 
said  he  could  bring  her  own  husband  from  the  grave  to 
point  out  her  second  bridegroom,  who  shall  be,  can  be, 
must  be,  no  other  than  Frederick  Sly. 

"  It  is  a  trick,"  said  the  ensign ;  but  Anne  was  too 
much  frightened  by  the  preceding  evening's  occurrences 
to  say  so.  "  To-night,"  she  said,  "  the  grave  will  tell  all." 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  91 

And  she  left  Ensign  Trippet  in  a  very  solemn  and  affect- 
ing way. 

*  *  *  *  # 

At  midnight  three  figures  were  seen  to  issue  from 
Widow  Bluebeard's  house,  and  pass  through  the  church- 
yard turnstile,  and  so  away  among  the  graves. 

"  To  call  up  a  ghost  is  bad  enough,"  said  the  wizard ; 
"  to  make  him  speak  is  awful.  I  recommend  you,  ma'am, 
to  beware,  for  such  curiosity  has  been  fatal  to  many. 
There  was  one  Arabian  necromancer  of  my  acquaintance 
who  tried  to  make  a  ghost  speak,  and  was  torn  in  pieces 
on  the  spot.  There  was  another  person  who  did  hear  a 
ghost  speak  certainly,  but  came  away  from  the  interview 
deaf  and  dumb.  There  was  another " 

"  Never  mind,"  says  Mrs.  Bluebeard,  all  her  old  curi- 
osity aroused,  "  see  him  and  hear  him  I  will.  Have  n't 
I  seen  him  and  heard  him,  too,  already  ?  When  he  's 
audible  and  visible,  then  's  the  time." 

"  But  when  you  heard  him,"  said  the  necromancer,  "  he 
was  invisible,  and  when  you  saw  him  he  was  inaudible ; 
so  make  up  your  mind  what  you  will  ask  him,  for  ghosts 
will  stand  no  shilly-shallying.  I  knew  a  stuttering  man 
who  was  flung  down  by  a  ghost,  and " 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  said  Fatima,  interrupting 
him. 

"  To  ask  him  what  husband  you  shall  take,"  whispered 
Anne. 

Fatima  only  turned  red,  and  sister  Anne  squeezed  her 
hand ;  they  passed  into  the  graveyard  in  silence. 

There  was  no  moon  ;  the  night  was  pitch  dark.  They 
threaded  their  way  through  the  graves,  stumbling  over 
them  here  and  there.  An  owl  was  toowhooing  from 
the  church  tower,  a  dog  was  howling  somewhere,  a  cock 


92  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

began  to  crow,  as  they  will  sometimes  at  twelve  o'clock 
at  night. 

"  Make  haste,"  said  the  wizard.  "  Decide  whether  you 
will  go  on  or  not." 

"  Let  us  go  back,  sister,"  said  Anne. 

"  I  will  go  on,"  said  Fatima.  "  I  should  die  if  I  gave 
it  up,  I  feel  I  should." 

"  Here  's  the  gate ;  kneel  down,"  said  the  wizard.  The 
women  knelt  down. 

"  Will  you  see  your  first  husband  or  your  second  hus- 
band?" 

"  I  will  see  Bluebeard  first,"  said  the  widow ;  "  I  shall 
know  then  whether  this  be  a  mockery,  or  you  have  the 
power  you  pretend  to." 

At  this  the  wizard  uttered  an  incantation,  so  frightful 
and  of  such  incomprehensible  words,  that  it  is  impossible 
for  any  mortal  man  to  repeat  them.  And  at  the  end  of 
what  seemed  to  be  a  versicle  of  his  chant  he  called  Blue- 
beard. There  was  no  noise  but  the  moaning  of  the  wind 
in  the  trees,  and  the  toowhooing  of  the  owl  in  the  tower. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  verse  he  paused  again,  and 
called  Bluebeard.  The  cock  began  to  crow,  the  dog  be- 
gan to  howl,  a  watchman  in  the  town  began  to  cry  out 
the  hour,  and  there  came  from  the  vault  within  a  hollow 
groan,  and  a  dreadful  voice  said,  "  Who  wants  me  ?  " 

Kneeling  in  front  of  the  tomb,  the  necromancer  began 
the  third  verse.  As  he  spoke,  the  former  phenomena 
were  still  to  be  remarked.  As  he  continued,  a  number 
of  ghosts  rose  from  their  graves,  and  advanced  round  the 
kneeling  figures  in  a  circle.  As  he  concluded,  with  a 
loud  bang  the  door  of  the  vault  flew  open,  and  there  in 
blue  light  stood  Bluebeard  in  his  blue  uniform,  waving 
his  blue  sword,  and  flashing  his  blue  eyes  round  about ! 


BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST.  93 

"  Speak  now,  or  you  are  lost,"  said  the  necromancer  to 
Fatima.  But,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  had  not  a 
word  to  say.  Sister  Anne,  too,  was  dumb  with  terror. 
And,  as  the  awful  figure  advanced  towards  them  as  they 
were  kneeling,  the  sister  thought  all  was  over  with  them, 
and  Fatima  once  more  had  occasion  to  repent  her  fatal 
curiosity. 

The  figure  advanced,  saying,  in  dreadful  accents,  "  Fa- 
tima !  Fatima  !  Fatima !  wherefore  am  I  called  from  my 
grave  ?  "  when  all  of  a  sudden  down  dropped  his  sword, 
down  the  ghost  of  Bluebeard  went  on  his  knees,  and, 
clasping  his  hands  together,  roared  out  "Murder,  mer- 
cy!" as  loud  as  man  could  roar. 

Six  other  ghosts  stood  round  the  kneeling  group.  "  Why 
do  you  call  me  from  the  tomb  ? "  said  the  first ;  "  Who 
dares  disturb  my  grave  ? "  said  the  second ;  "  Seize  him 
and  away  with  him,"  cried  the  third.  "  Murder,  mercy  ! " 
still  roared  the  ghost  of  Bluebeard,  as  the  white-robed 
spirits  advanced  and  caught  hold  of  him. 

"  It 's  only  Tom  Trippet,"  said  a  voice  at  Anne's  ear. 

"And  your  very  humble  servant,"  said  a  voice  well 
known  to  Mrs.  Bluebeard ;  and  they  helped  the  ladies  to 
rise,  while  the  other  ghosts  seized  Bluebeard.  The  nec- 
romancer took  to  his  heels  and  got  off;  he  was  found  to 
be  no  other  than  Mr.  Claptrap,  the  manager  of  the 
theatre. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  ghost  of  Bluebeard  could 
recover  from  the  fainting  fit  into  which  he  had  been 
plunged  when  seized  by  the  opposition  ghosts  in  white ; 
and  while  they  were  ducking  him  at  the  pump  his  blue- 
beard  came  off,  and  he  was  discovered  to  be  —  who  do 
you  think  ?  Why  Mr.  Sly,  to  be  sure ;  and  it  appears 
that  John  Thomas,  the  footman,  had  lent  him  the  uni- 


94  BLUEBEARD'S  GHOST. 

form,  and  had  clapped  the  doors,  and  rung  the  bells,  and 
spoken  down  the  chimney ;  and  it  was  Mr.  Claptrap  who 
gave  Mr.  Sly  the  blue  fire  and  the  theatre  gong ;  and  he 
went  to  London  next  morning  by  the  coach ;  and,  as  it 
was  discovered  that  the  story  concerning  Miss  Coddlins 
was  a  shameful  calumny,  why,  of  course,  the  widow  mar- 
ried Captain  Blackboard.  Dr.  Sly  married  them,  and 
has  always  declared  that  he  knew  nothing  of  his  nephew's 
doings,  and  wondered  that  he  has  not  tried  to  commit 
suicide  since  his  last  disappointment. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trippet  are  likewise  living  happily  to- 
gether, and  this,  I  am  given  to  understand,  is  the  ultimate 
fate  of  a  family  in  whom  we  were  all  very  much  inter- 
ested in  early  life. 

You  will  say  that  the  story  is  not  probable.  Psha ! 
Is  n't  it  written  in  a  book  ?  and  is  it  a  whit  less  probable 
than  the  first  part  of  the  tale  ? 


DICKENS    IN    FRANCE. 


EEING  placarded  on  the  walls  a  huge  an- 
nouncement that  "  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY,  ou 
les  Voleurs  de  Londres,"  was  to  be  performed 
at  the  Ambigu-'Comique  Theatre  on  the  Bou- 
levard, and  having  read  in  the  "  Journal  des  Debats "  a 
most  stern  and  ferocious  criticism  upon  the  piece  in  ques- 
tion, and  upon  poor  Monsieur  Dickens,  its  supposed  au- 
thor, it  seemed  to  me  by  no  means  unprofitable  to  lay  out 
fifty  sous  in  the  purchase  of  a  stall  at  the  theatre,  and  to 
judge  with  my  own  eyes  of  the  merits  and  demerits  of 
the  play. 

Who  does  not  remember  (except  those  who  never  saw 
the  drama,  and  therefore  of  course  cannot  be  expected  to 
have  any  notion  of  it)  —  who  does  not,  I  say,  remember 
the  pathetic  acting  of  Mrs.  Keeley  in  the  part  of  Smike, 
as  performed  at  the  Adelphi ;  the  obstinate  good-humor 
of  Mr.  Wilkinson,  who,  having  to  represent  the  brutal 
Squeers,  was,  according  to  his  nature,  so  chuckling,  oily, 
and  kind-hearted,  that  little  boys  must  have  thought  it  a 
good  joke  to  be  flogged  by  him ;  finally,  the  acting  of  the 
admirable  Yates  in  the  kindred  part  of  Mantalini  ?  Can 
France,  I  thought,  produce  a  fop  equal  to  Yates?  Is 
there  any  vulgarity  and  assurance  on  the  Boulevard  that 
can  be  compared  to  that  of  which,  in  the  character  of 


96  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

Man  tali  ni,  he  gives  a  copy  so  wonderfully  close  to  na- 
ture? Never  then  were  fifty  sous  more  cheerfully, — 
nay,  eagerly  paid,  than  by  your  obedient  servant. 

After  China,  this  is  the  most  ignorant  country,  thought 
I,  in  the  whole  civilized  world  (the  company  was  drop- 
ping into  the  theatre,  and  the  musicians  were  one  by  one 
taking  their  seats)  ;  these  people  are  so  immensely  con- 
ceited, that  they  think  the  rest  of  Europe  beneath  them ; 
and  though  they  have  invaded  Spain,  Italy,  Russia,  Ger- 
many, not  one  in  ten  thousand  can  ask  for  a  piece  of 
bread  in  the  national  language  of  the  countries  so  con- 
quered. But  see  the  force  of  genius;  after  a  time  it 
conquers  everything,  even  the  ignorance  and  conceit  of 
Frenchmen !  The  name  of  Nicholas  Nickleby  crosses 
the  Channel  in  spite  of  them.  I  shall  see  honest  John 
Browdie  and  wicked  Ralph  once  more,  honest  and  wicked 
in  French.  Shall  we  have  the  Kenwigses,  and  their 
uncle,  the  delightful  collector;  and  will  he,  in  Ports- 
mouth church,  make  that  famous  marriage  with  Juliana 
Petowker  ?  Above  all,  what  will  Mrs.  Nickleby  say  ?  — 
the  famous  Mrs.  Nickleby,  who  has  lain  undescribed  un- 
til Boz  seized  upon  her  and  brought  that  great  truth  to 
light,  and  whom  yet  every  man  possesses  in  the  bosom  of 
his  own  family.  Are  there  Mrs.  Nicklebies,  —  or,  to 
speak  more  correctly,  are  there  Mistresses  Nickleby  in 
France  ?  We  shall  see  all  this  at  the  rising  of  the  cur- 
tain ;  and,  hark !  the  fiddlers  are  striking  up. 

Presently  the  prompter  gives  his  three  heart-thrilling 
slaps,  and  the  great  painted  cloth  moves  upwards :  it  is 
always  a  moment  of  awe  and  pleasure.  What  is  coming  ? 
First  you  get  a  glimpse  of  legs  and  feet ;  then  suddenly 
the  owners  of  the  limbs  in  question  in  steady  attitudes, 
looking  as  if  they  had  been  there  one  thousand  years 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  97 

before ;  now  behold  the  landscape,  the  clouds  ;  the  great 
curtain  vanishes  altogether,  the  charm  is  dissolved,  and 
the  disenchanted  performers  begin. 

ACT   I. 

You  see  a  court  of  a  school,  with  great  iron  bars  in 
front,  and  a  beauteous  sylvan  landscape  beyond.  Could 
you  read  the  writing  on  the  large  board  over  the  gate, 
you  would  know  that  the  school  was  the  "  Paradis  des 
Enfans,"  kept  by  Mr.  Squeers.  Somewhere  by  that 
bright  river,  which  meanders  through  the  background,  is 
the  castle  of  the  stately  Earl  of  Clarendon,  —  no  relation 
to  a  late  ambassador  at  Madrid. 

His  lordship  is  from  home ;  but  his  young  and  lovely 
daughter,  Miss  Annabella,  is  in  Yorkshire,  and  at  this 
very  moment  is  taking  a  lesson  of  French  from  Mr. 
Squeers's  sous-maitre,  Neekolass  Neeklbee.  Nicholas  is, 
however,  no  vulgar  usher ;  he  is  but  lately  an  orphan ; 
and  his  uncle,  the  rich  London  banker,  Monsieur  Ralph, 
taking  charge  of  the  lad's  portionless  sister,  has  procured 
for  Nicholas  this  place  of  usher  at  a  school  in  le  York- 
sheer. 

A  rich  London  banker  procuring  his  nephew  a  place  in 
a  school  at  eight  guineas  per  annum  !  Sure  there  must 
be  some  roguery  in  this ;  and  the  more  so  when  you  know 
that  Monsieur  Squeers,  the  keeper  of  the  academy,  was 
a  few  years  since  a  vulgar  rope-dancer  and  tumbler  at  a 
fair.  But  peace  !  let  these  mysteries  clear  up,  as,  please 
Heaven,  before  five  acts  are  over  they  will.  Meanwhile, 
Nicholas  is  happy  in  giving  his  lessons  to  the  lovely 
Meess  Annabel.  Lessons,  indeed !  Lessons  of  what  ? 
Alack,  alack  !  when  two  young,  handsome,  ardent,  tender- 
hearted people  pore  over  the  same  book,  we  know  what 
5  O 


98  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

happens,  be  the  book  what  it  may.  French  or  Hebrew, 
there  is  always  one  kind  of  language  in  the  leaves,  as 
those  can  tell  who  have  conned  them. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  absence  of  his  usher,  Monsieur 
Squeers  keeps  school.  But  one  of  his  scholars  is  in  the 
court-yard,  —  a  lad  beautifully  dressed,  fat,  clean,  and 
rosy.  A  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Browdie,  by  profes- 
sion a  drover,  is  with  the  boy,  employed  at  the  moment 
(for  he  is  at  leisure,  and  fond  of  music)  in  giving  him  a 
lesson  on  the  clarionet. 

The  boy  thus  receiving  lessons  is  called  facetiously  by 
his  master  Prospectus,  and  why  ?  Because  he  is  so  ex- 
cessively fat  and  healthy,  and  well  clothed,  that  his  mere 
appearance  in  the  court-yard  is  supposed  to  entice  parents 
and  guardians  to  place  their  children  in  a  seminary  where 
the  scholars  were  in  such  admirable  condition. 

And  here  I  cannot  help  observing  in  the  first  place, 
that  Squeers,  exhibiting  in  this  manner  a  sample-boy,  and 
pretending  that  the  whole  stock  was  like  him  (whereas 
they  are  a  miserable,  half-starved  set),  must  have  been 
an  abominable  old  scoundrel ;  and  secondly  (though  the 
observation  applies  to  the  French  nation  merely,  and  may 
be  considered  more  as  political  than  general),  that,  by 
way  of  a  fat  specimen,  never  was  one  more  unsatisfactory 
than  this.  Such  a  poor  shrivelled  creature  I  never  saw ; 
it  is  like  a  French  fat  pig,  as  lanky  as  a  greyhound ! 
Both  animals  give  one  a  thorough  contempt  for  the  nation. 

John  Browdie  gives  his  lesson  to  Prospectus,  who  in- 
forms him  of  some  of  the  circumstances  narrated  above ; 
and  having  concluded  the  lesson,  honest  John  produces  a 
piece  of  pudding  for  his  pupil.  Ah,  how  Prospectus  de- 
vours it !  for  though  the  only  well-fed  boy  in  the  school, 
he  is,  we  regret  to  say,  a  gormandizer  by  disposition. 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  99 

"While  Prospectus  eats,  another  of  Mr.  Squeers' s  schol- 
ars is  looking  unnoticed  on,  —  another  boy,  a  thousand 
times  more  miserable.  See  yon  poor  shivering  child, 
trembling  over  his  book  in  a  miserable  hutch  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  court !  He  is  in  rags,  he  is  not  allowed  to  live 
with  the  other  boys ;  at  play  they  constantly  buffet  him, 
at  lesson-time  their  blunders  are  visited  upon  his  poor 
shoulders. 

Who  is  this  unhappy  boy  ?  Ten  years  since  a  man  by 
the  name  of  Becher  brought  him  to  the  Paradis  des  En- 
fans,  and  paying  in  advance  five  years  of  his  pension, 
left  him  under  the  charge  of  Monsieur  Squeers.  No  fam- 
ily ever  visited  the  child;  and  when  at  the  five  years' 
end  the  instituteur  applied  at  the  address  given  him  by 
Becher  for  the  further  payment  of  his  pupil's  expenses, 
Monsieur  Squeers  found  that  Becher  had  grossly  deceived 
him,  that  no  such  persons  existed,  and  that  no  money  was 
consequently  forthcoming,  hence  the  misfortunes  which 
afterwards  befell  the  hapless  orphan.  None  cared  for  him, 
—  none  knew  him.  'T  is  possible  that  even  the  name  he 
went  by  was  fictitious.  That  name  was  Smike,  pro- 
nounced Smeek. 

Poor  Smeek !  he  had,  however,  found  one  friend,  — 
the  kind-hearted  sous-maitre  Neeklbee,  —  who  gave  him 
half  of  his  own  daily  pittance  of  bread  and  pudding,  en- 
couraged him  to  apply  to  his  books,  and  defended  him 
as  much  as  possible  from  the  assaults  of  the  schoolboys 
and  Monsieur  Squeers. 

John  Browdie  had  just  done  giving  his  lesson  of  clar- 
ionet to  Prospectus  when  Neeklbee  arrived  at  the  school. 
There  was  a  difference  between  John  and  Nicholas ;  for 
the  former,  seeing  the  young  usher's  frequent  visits  at 
Clarendon  Castle,  foolishly  thought  he  was  enamored 


100  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

• 
of  Meess  Jenny,  the  fermier's  daughter,  on  whom  John, 

too,  had  fixed  an  eye  of  affection.  Silly  John  !  Nich- 
olas's heart  was  fixed  (hopelessly,  as  the  young  man 
thought)  upon  higher  objects.  However,  the  very  instant 
that  Nickleby  entered  the  court-yard  of  the  school,  John 
took  up  his  stick,  and  set  off  for  London,  whither  he  was 
bound,  with  a  drove  of  oxen. 

Nickleby  had  not  arrived  a  whit  too  soon  to  protect 
his  poor  friend,  Smeek.  All  the  boys  were  called  into 
the  court-yard  by  Monsieur  Squarrs,  and  made  to  say 
their  lessons.  When  it  came  to  poor  Smeek's  turn,  the 
timid  lad  trembled,  hesitated,  and  could  not  do  his  spell- 
ing. 

Inflamed  with  fury,  old  Squarrs  rushed  forward,  and 
would  have  assommed  his  pupil,  but  human  nature  could 
bear  this  tyranny  no  longer.  Nickleby,  stepping  forward, 
defended  the  poor  prostrate  child;  and  when  Squeers 
raised  his  stick  to  strike  —  pouf!  pif!  un,  deux,  trois,  et 
la !  —  Monsieur  Nicholas  flanqued  him  several  coups  de 
poing,  and  sent  him  bientot  grovelling  a  terre. 

You  may  be  sure  that  there  was  now  a  pretty  hallooing 
among  the  boys ;  all  jumped,  kicked,  thumped,  bumped, 
and  scratched  their  unhappy  master  (and  serve  him  right, 
too!),  and  when  they  had  finished  their  fun,  vlan  !  flung 
open  the  gates  of  the  Infants'  Paradise,  and  run  away 
home. 

Neeklbee,  seeing  what  he  had  done,  had  nothing  left  but 
to  run  away,  too.  He  penned  a  hasty  line  to  his  lovely 
pupil  Miss  Annabel,  to  explain  that  though  his  departure 
was  sudden  his  honor  was  safe,  and  seizing  his  stick  quit- 
ted the  school. 

There  was  but  one  pupil  left  in  it,  and  he,  poor  soul, 
knew  not  whither  to  go.  But  when  he  saw  Nicholas,  his 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 


101 


sole  friend,  departing,  he  mustered  courage,  and  then 
made  a  step  forward,  —  and  then  wondered  if  he  dared, 
—  and  then,  when  Nicholas  was  at  a  little  distance  from 
him,  ran,  ran  as  if  his  life  (as  indeed  it  did)  depended  up- 
on it. 

This  is  the  picture  of  Neeklbee  and  poor  Smeek.  They 
are  both  dressed  in  the  English  fashion,  and  you  must 
fancy  the  curtain  falling  amidst  thunders  of  applause. 

[End  of  Act  I. 


«  Ah,  ah,  ah !  ouf,  pouf."  «  Dieu,  qu'il  fait  chaud  ! " 
"  Orgeat,  limonade,  biere !  "  "  L'Entracte,  journal  de 
tous  les  spectacles  !  "  "  LA  MARSEILLAI-AI-AISE  !  " 
With  such  cries  from  pit  and  boxes  the  public  wiles  away 
the  weary  ten  minutes  between  the  acts.  The  three 
bonnes  in  the  front  boxes,  who  had  been  escorted  by  a 
gentleman  in  a  red  cap,  and  jacket,  and  earrings,  begin 
sucking  oranges  with  great  comfort,  while  their  friend 
amuses  himself  with  a  piece  of  barley-sugar.  The  petite- 


102  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

maitresse  in  the  private  box  smoothes  her  bandeaux  of  hair 
and  her  little  trim,  white  cuffs,  and  looks  at  her  chiffons. 
The  friend  of  the  tight  black  velvet  spencer  meanwhile 
pulls  his  yellow  kid  gloves  tighter  on  his  hands,  and  looks 
superciliously  round  the  house  with  his  double-glass. 
Fourteen  people,  all  smelling  of  smoke,  all  bearded,  and 
all  four  feet  high,  pass  over  your  body  to  their  separate 
stalls.  The  prompter  gives  his  thumps,  whack  —  whack 
—  whack !  the  music  begins  again,  the  curtain  draws, 
and,  lo !  we  have 

ACT   II. 

The  tavern  of  Les  Armes  du  Koi  appears  to  be  one  of 
the  most  frequented  in  the  city  of  London.  It  must  be 
in  the  Yorkshire  road,  that  is  clear ;  for  the  first  person 
whom  we  see  there  is  John  Browdie ;  to  him  presently 
comes  Prospectus,  then  Neeklbee,  then  poor  Srneek,  each 
running  away  individually  from  the  Paradis  des  Enfans. 

It  is  likewise  at  this  tavern  that  the  great  banker 
Ralph  does  his  business,  and  lets  you  into  a  number  of 
his  secrets.  Hither,  too,  comes  Milor  Clarendon,  a  hand- 
some peer,  forsooth,  but  a  sad  reprobate,  I  fear.  Sorrow 
has  driven  him  to  these  wretched  courses.  Ten  years 
since  he  lost  a  son,  a  lovely  child  of  six  years  of  age ; 
.and,  hardened  by  the  loss,  he  has  taken  to  gambling,  to 
the  use  of  the  vins  de  France  which  take  the  reason  pris- 
oner, and  to  other  excitements  still  more  criminal.  He 
has  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  lovely  Kate  Nickleby  (he,  the 
father  of  Miss  Annabel !),  and  asks  the  banker  to  sup 
with  him,  to  lend  him  ten  thousand  pounds,  and  to  bring 
his  niece  with  him.  With  every  one  of  these  requests 
the  capitalist  promises  to  comply.  The  money  he  pro- 
duces forthwith,  the  lady  he  goes  to  fetch.  Ah,  milor ! 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 


103 


beware,  —  beware,  your  health  is  bad,  your  property  is 
ruined,  —  death  and  insolvency  stare  you  in  the  face,  — 
but  what  cares  Lor  Clarendon  ?  He  is  desperate  J  he 
orders  a  splendid  repast  in  a  private  apartment,  and 
while  they  are  getting  it  ready,  he  and  the  young  lords  of 
his  acquaintance  sit  down  and  crack  a  bottle  in  the  coffee- 
room.  A  gallant  set  of  gentlemen,  truly ;  all  in  short 
coats  with  capes  to  them,  in  tights  and  Hessian  boots, 
such  as  our  nobility  are  in  the  custom  of  wearing. 


"I  bet  you  cinq  cents  guinees,  Lor  Beef,"  says  Milor 
Clarendon  (whom  the  wine  has  begun  to  excite),  "  that  I 
will  have  the  lovely  Kate  Nicklbee  at  supper  with  us  to- 
night." 


104  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

"  Done ! "  says  Lor  Beef.  But  why  starts  yon  stranger 
who  has  just  come  into  the  hotel  ?  Why,  forsooth  ?  be- 
cause he  is  Nicholas  Nickleby,  Kate's  brother ;  and  a 
pretty  noise  he  makes  when  he  hears  of  his  lordship's 
project ! 

"  You  have  Meess  Neeklbee  at  your  table,  sir  ?  You 
are  a  liar ! " 

All  the  lords  start  up. 

"  Who  is  this  very  strange  person  ?  "  says  Milor  Claren- 
don, as  cool  as  a  cucumber. 

"  Dog !  give  me  your  name ! "  shouts  Nicholas. 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha ! "  says  my  lord,  scornfully. 

"  John,"  says  Nickleby,  seizing  hold  of  a  waiter,  "  tell 
me  that  man's  name." 

John  the  waiter  looks  frightened,  and  hums  and  has, 
when,  at  the  moment,  who  should  walk  in  but  Mr.  Ralph 
the  banker,  and  his  niece. 

Ralph.     "  Nicholas !  —  confusion ! " 

Kate.     « My  brother!" 

Nicholas.  "  A  vaunt,  woman  !  Tell  me,  sirrah,  by  what 
right  you  bring  my  sister  into  such  company,  and  who  is 
the  villain  to  whom  you  have  presented  her  ?  " 

Ralph.     "Lord  Clarendon." 

Nicholas.  "  The  father  of  Meess  Annabel  ?  Gracious 
heaven ! " 

What  followed  now  need  not  be  explained.  The  young 
lords  and  the  banker  retire  abashed  to  their  supper,  while 
Meess  Kate,  and  Smike,  who  has  just  arrived,  fall  into 
.the  arms  of  Nicholas. 

Such,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  the  second  act,  rather 
feeble  in  interest,  and  not  altogether  probable  in  action. 
That  five  people  running  away  from  Yorkshire  should  all 
come  to  the  same  inn  in  London,  arriving  within  five 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  105 

minutes  of  each  other,  —  that  Mr.  Ralph,  the  great  bank- 
er, should  make  the  hotel  his  place  of  business,  and  openly 
confess  in  the  coffee-room  to  his  ex-agent  Becher  that  he 
had  caused  Becher  to  make  away  with  or  murder  the  son 
of  Lord  Clarendon,  —  finally,  that  Lord  Clarendon  him- 
self, with  an  elegant  town  mansion,  should  receive  his 
distinguished  guests  in  a  tavern,  of  not  the  first  respecta- 
bility, —  all  these  points  may,  perhaps,  strike  the  critic 
from  their  extreme  improbability.  But,  bless  your  soul ! 
if  these  are  improbabilities,  what  will  you  say  to  the  rev- 
elations of  the 

THIRD    ACT. 

That  scoundrel  Squarrs  before  he  kept  the  school  was, 
as  we  have  seen,  a  tumbler  and  saltimbanque,  and,  as 
such,  member  of  the  great  fraternity  of  cadgers,  beggars, 
gueux,  thieves,  that  have  their  club  in  London.  It  is  held 
in  immense  Gothic  vaults  under  ground :  here  the  beg- 
gars consort  their  plans,  divide  their  spoil,  and  hold  their 
orgies. 

In  returning  to  London  Monsieur  Squarrs  instantly 
resumes  his  acquaintance  with  his  old  comrades,  who  ap- 
point him,  by  the  all-powerful  interest  of  &  peculiar  person, 
head  of  the  community  of  cadgers. 

That  person  is  no  other  than  the  banker  Ralph,  who, 
in  secret,  directs  this  godless  crew,  visits  their  haunts,  and 
receives  from  them  a  boundless  obedience.  A  villain 
himself,  he  has  need  of  the  aid  of  villany.  He  pants  for 
vengeance  against  his  nephew,  he  has  determined  that  his 
niece  shall  fall  a  prey  to  Mil  or  Clarendon,  —  nay,  more, 
he  has  a  dark  suspicion  that  Smike,  —  the  orphan  boy, — 
the  homeless  fugitive  from  Yorkshire,  —  is  no  other  than 
the  child  who  ten  years  ago  —  But,  hush ! 
5* 


106  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

"Where  is  his  rebellious  nephew  and  those  whom  he 
protects  ?  The  quick  vigilance  of  Ralph  soon  discovered 
them  ;  Nicholas,  haviiig  taken  the  name  of  Edward 
Browne,  was  acting  at  a  theatre  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Thames.  Haste,  Squarrs,  take  a  couple  of  trusty 
beggars  with  you,  and  hie  thee  to  Wapping ;  seize  young 
Smike  and  carry  him  to  Cadger's  Cavern,  —  haste,  then  ! 
The  mind  shudders  to  consider  what  is  to  happen. 

In  Nicholas's  room  at  the  theatre  we  find  his  little  fam- 
ily assembled,  and  with  them  honest  John  Browdie,  who 
has  forgotten  his  part  on  learning  that  Nicholas  was  at- 
tached, not  to  the  fermiere,  but  to  the  mistress ;  to  them 
comes  —  gracious  heavens !  —  Meess  Annabel.  "  Fly," 
says  she,  "  fly !  I  have  overheard  a  plot  concocted  between 
my  father  and  your  uncle ;  the  sheriff  is  to  seize  you  for 
the  abduction  of  Smeek  and  the  assault  upon  Squarrs," 
&c.  &c.  &c. 

In  short,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  describe  this  act,  so 
much  is  there  done  in  it.  Lord  Clarendon  learns  that  he 
has  pledged  his  life  interest  in  his  estates  to  Ralph. 

His  Lordship  dies,  and  Ralph  seizes  a  paper,  which 
proves  beyond  a  doubt  that  young  Smike  is  no  other  than 
Clarendon's  long-lost  son. 

Uinfame  Squarrs  with  his  satellites  carry  off  the  boy ; 
Browdie  pitches  Squarrs  into  the  river ;  the  sheriff  carries 
Nickleby  to  prison ;  and  VICE  TRIUMPHS  in  the  person  of 
the  odious  Ralph.  But  vice  does  not  always  triumph; 
wait  awhile  and  you  will  see.  For  in  the 

FOURTH   ACT. 

John  Browdie,  determined  to  rescue  his  two  young  friends, 
follows  Ralph  like  his  shadow ;  he  dogs  him  to  a  rendez- 
vous of  the  beggars,  and  overhears  all  his  conversation 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  107 

with  Squarrs.  The  boy  is  in  the  Cadger's  Cavern,  hid- 
den a  thousand  feet  below  the  Thames ;  there  is  to  be  a 
grand  jollification  among  the  rogues  that  night,  —  a  dance 
and  a  feast.  "I"  says  John  Browdie,  will  be  there." 
And,  wonderful  to  say,  who  should  pass  but  his  old  friend 
Prospectus,  to  whom  he  gave  lessons  on  the  clarionet. 

Prospectus  is  a  cadger  now,  and  is  to  play  his  clarionet 
that  night  at  Cadger's  Hall.  Browdie  will  join  him,  — 
he  is  dressed  up  like  a  blind  beggar,  and  strange  sights, 
Heaven  knows,  meet  his  eyes  in  Cadger's  Hall. 

Here  they  come  trooping  in  by  scores,  —  the  halt  and 
the  lame,  black  sweepers,  one-legged  fiddlers,  the  climber 
inots,  the  fly-fakers,  the  kedgoree  coves,  — in  a  word,  the 
rogues  of  London,  to  their  Gothic  hall,  a  thousand  miles 
below  the  level  of  the  sea.  Squarrs  is  their  nominal 
head ;  but  their  real  leader  is  the  tall  man  yonder  in  the 
black  mask,  he  whom  nobody  knows  but  Browdie,  who 
has  found  him  out  at  once,  —  't  is  Ralph  ! 

"  Bring  out  the  prisoner,"  says  the  black  mask ;  "  he  has 
tried  to  escape,  —  he  has  broken  his  oaths  to  the  cadgers, 
let  him  meet  his  punishment." 

And  without  a  word  more,  what  do  these  cadgers  do  ? 
They  take  poor  Snaike  and  bury  him  alive  ;  down  he  goes 
into  the  vault,  a  stone  is  rolled  over  him,  the  cadgers  go 
away,  —  so  much  for  Smike. 

But  in  the  mean  time  Master  Browdie  has  not  been 
idle.  He  has  picked  the  pocket  of  one  of  the  cadgers  of 
a  portfolio  containing  papers  that  prove  Smike  to  be 
Lord  Clarendon  beyond  a  doubt ;  he  lags  behind  until 
all  the  cadgers  are  gone,  and  with  the  help  of  Nicholas 
(who,  by  the  by,  has  found  his  way  somehow  into  the 
place),  he  pushes  away  the  stone,  and  brings  the  fainting 
boy  to  the  world. 


108  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

These  things  are  improbable,  you  certainly  may  say, 
but  are  they  impossible  ?  If  they  are  possible,  then  they 
may  come  to  pass ;  if  they  may  come  to  pass  then,  they 
may  be  supposed  to  come  to  pass  :  and  why  should  they 
not  come  to  pass  ?  That  is  my  argument :  let  us  pass  on 
to  the 

FIFTH   ACT. 

Aha !  Master  Ralph,  you  think  you  will  have  it  all 
your  own  way,  do  you  ?  The  lands  of  Clarendon  are 
yours,  provided  there  is  no  male  heir,  and  you  have  done 
for  him.  The  peerage,  to  be  sure  (by  the  laws  of  Eng- 
land), is  to  pass  to  the  husband  of  Meess  Annabella. 
Will  she  marry  Ralph,  or  not  ?  Yes  :  then  well  and 
good ;  he  is  an  earl  for  the  future  and  the  father  of  a  new 
race  of  Clarendon.  No  :  then,  in  order  to  spell  her  still 
more,  he  has  provided  amongst  the  beggars  a  lad  who  is 
to  personate  the  young  mislaid  Lord  Clarendon,  who  is  to 
come  armed  with  certain  papers  that  make  his  right  un- 
questionable, and  who  will  be  a  creature  of  Ralph's,  to  be 
used  or  cast  away  at  will. 

Ralph  pops  the  question  ;  the  lady  repels  him  with 
scorn.  "  Quit  the  house,  Meess,"  says  he ;  "  it  is  not 
yours,  but  mine.  Give  up  that  vain  title  which  you  have 
adopted  since  your  papa's  death  ;  you  are  no  countess,  — 
your  brother  lives.  Ho  !  John,  Thomas,  Samuel !  intro- 
duce his  lordship,  the  Comte  de  Clarendon." 

And  who  slips  in  ?  Why,  in  a  handsome  new  dress, 
in  the  English  fashion,  Smike,  to  be  sure,  —  the  boy 
whom  Ralph  has  murdered,  —  the  boy  who. had  risen 
from  the  tomb,  —  the  boy  who  had  miraculously  discov- 
ered the  papers  in  Cadger's  Hall  and  (by  some  underhand 
work  that  went  on  behind  the  scenes,  which  I  don't  pre- 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  109 

tend  to  understand)  had  substituted  himself  for  the  sub- 
stitute which  that  wicked  banker  had  proposed  to  bring 
forward  !  A  rush  of  early  recollections  floods  the  panting 
heart  of  the  young  boy.  Can  it  be  ?  Yes,  —  no  ;  sure 
these  halls  are  familiar  to  him  ?  That  conservatory,  has 
he  not  played  with  the  flowers  there,  —  played  with  his 
blessed  mother  at  his  side  ?  That  portrait !  Stop  !  a  — 
a  —  a  —  a  —  ah  !  it  is,  —  it  is  my  sister  Anna  —  Anna 
—  bella! 

Fancy  the  scene  as  the  two  young  creatures  rush  with 
a  scream  into  each  other's  arms.  Fancy  John  Browdie's 
hilarity :  he  jumps  for  joy,  and  throws  off  his  beggar's 
cloak  and  beard.  Nicholas  clasps  his  hands,  and  casts 
his  fine  eyes  heavenward.  But,  above  all,  fancy  the  de- 
spair of  that  cursed  banker  Ralph  as  he  sees  his  victim 
risen  from  the  grave,  and  all  his  hopes  dashed  down  into 
it.  0  Heaven,  Thy  hand  is  here  !  How  must  the 
banker  then  have  repented  of  his  bargain  with  the  late 
Lord  Clarendon,  and  that  he  had  not  had  his  lordship's 
life  insured  !  Perdition  !  to  have  been  out-tricked  by  a 
boy  and  a  country  boor  !  Is  there  no  hope  ?  *  *  * 

Hope  ?  Psha  !  man,  thy  reign  of  vice  is  over,  —  it  is 
the  fifth  act.  Already  the  people  are  beginning  to  leave 
the  house,  and  never  more  again  canst  thou  expect  to  lift 
thy  head. 

"  Monsieur  Ralph,"  Browdie  whispers,  "  after  your 
pretty  doings  in  Cadger's  Hall,  had  you  not  best  be  think- 
ing of  leaving  the  country,  as  Nicholas  Nickleby's  uncle, 
I  would  fain  not  see  you,  crick !  You  understand  ? " 
(pointing  to  his  jugular). 

"  I  do,"  says  Ralph,  gloomily,  "  and  will  be  off  in  two 
hours."  And  Lord  Smike  takes  honest  Browdie  by  one 
hand,  gently  pressing  Kate's  little  fingers  with  the  other, 


110  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

and  the  sheriff,  and  the  footmen,  and  attendants  form  a 
tableaux,  and  the  curtain  begins  to  fall,  and  the  blushing 
Annabel  whispers  to  happy  Nicholas,  —  "  Ah  !  my  friend, 
I  can  give  up  with  joy  to  my  brother  ma  couronne  de 
comtesse.  What  care  I  for  rank  or  name  with  you  ?  the 
name  that  I  love  above  all  others  is  that  of  LADY  ANNA- 
BEL NlCKLEBY."  [Exeunt  omnes. 

The  musicians  have  hurried  off  long  before  this.  In 
one  instant  the  stage  lamps  go  out,  and  you  see  fellows 
starting  forward  to  cover  the  boxes  with  canvas.  Up 
goes  the  chandelier  amongst  the  gods  and  goddesses 
painted  on  the  ceiling.  Those  in  the  galleries,  mean- 
while, bellow  out  "  SAINT-ERNEST  ! "  he  it  is  who  acted 
John  Browdie.  Then  there  is  a  yell  of  "  SMEEK  ! 
SMEEK  !  "  Blushing  and  bowing,  Madame  Prosper 
comes  forward ;  by  heavens !  a  pretty  woman,  with  ten- 
der eyes  and  a  fresh,  clear  voice.  Next  the  gods  call  for 
"  CHILLY  ! "  who  acted  the  villain :  but  by  this  time  you 
are  bustling  and  struggling  among  the  crowd  in  the  lob- 
bies, where  there  is  the  usual  odor  of  garlic  and  tobacco. 
Men  in  sabots  come  tumbling  down  from  the  galleries ; 
cries  of  "  Auguste,  solo  !  Eugenie  !  prends  ton  paraphiie." 
"  Monsieur,  vous  me  marchez  sur  les  pieds,"  are  heard  in 
the  crowd,  over  which  the  brazen  helmets  of  the  Pom- 
pier's tower  are  shining.  A  cabman  in  the  Boulevard, 
who  opens  his  vehicle  eagerly  as  you  pass  by,  growls 
dreadful  oaths  when,  seated  inside,  you  politely  request 
him  to  drive  to  the  Barriere  de  1'Etoile.  "  Ah,  ces  An- 
glais," says  he,  "  $a  demeure  dans  les  deserts,  —  dans  les 
deserts,  grand  Dieu,  avec  les  loups  ;  Us  prennent  leur 
beautyfine  the  avec  leurs  tartines  le  soir,  et  puis  Us  se 
couchent  dans  les  deserts,  ma  parole  d'konneur ;  comme 
des  Arabes.n 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  Ill 

If  the  above  explanation  of  the  plot  of  the  new  piece 
of  Nicholas  Nickleby  has  appeared  intolerably  long  to 
those  few  persons  who  have  perused  it,  I  can  only  say  for 
their  comfort  that  I  have  not  told  one  half  of  the  real 
plot  of  the  piece  in  question  ;  nay,  very  likely  have  pass- 
ed over  all  the  most  interesting  part  of  it.  There,  for  in- 
stance, was  the  assassination  of  the  virtuous  villain  Becher, 
the  dying  scene  with  my  lord,  the  manner  in  which  Nich- 
olas got  into  the  Cadger's  Cave,  and  got  out  again.  Have 
I  breathed  a  syllable  upon  any  of  these  points  ?  No ; 
and  never  will  to  my  dying  day.  The  imperfect  account 
of  Nicholas  Nickleby  given  above  is  all  that  the  most  im- 
patient reader  (let  him  have  fair  warning)  can  expect  to 
hear  from  his  humble  servant.  Let  it  be  sufficient  to 
know  that  the  piece  in  itself  contains  a  vast  number  of 
beauties  entirely  passed  over  by  the  unworthy  critic,  and 
only  to  be  appreciated  by  any  gentleman  who  will  take 
the  trouble  to  step  across  the  Channel,  and  thence  from 
his  hotel  to  the  ambiguously-comic  theatre.  And  let 
him  make  haste,  too ;  for  who  knows  what  may  happen  ? 
Human  life  is  proverbially  short.  Theatrical  pieces 
bloom  and  fade  like  the  flowers  of  the  field,  and  very  like- 
ly, long  before  this  notice  shall  appear  in  print  (as  let  us 
heartily,  from  mercenary  considerations,  pray  that  it  will), 
the  drama  of  Nicholas  Nickleby  may  have  disappeared 
altogether  from  the  world's  ken,  like  Carthage,  Troy, 
Swallow  Street,  the  Marylebone  bank,  Babylon,  and 
other  fond  magnificences  elevated  by  men,  and  now  for- 
gotten and  prostrate. 

As  for  the  worthy  Boz,  it  will  be  seen  that  his  share 
in  the  piece  is  perfectly  insignificant,'  and  that  he  has  no 
more  connection  with  the  noble  geniuses  who  invented 
the  drama  than  a  pig  has  with  a  gold-laced  hat  that  a 


112  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

nobleman  may  have  hung  on  it,  or  a  starting-post  on  the 
race-course  with  some  magnificent,  thousand-guinea,  fiery 
horses  who  may  choose  to  run  from  it.  How  poor  do  his 
writings  appear  after  those  of  the  Frenchman  !  How 
feeble,  mean,  and  destitute  of  imagination  !  He  never 
would  have  thought  of  introducing  six  lords,  an  ex-kid- 
napper, a  great  banker,  an  idiot,  a  schoolmaster,  his 
usher,  a  cattle-driver,  coming  for  the  most  part  a  couple 
of  hundred  miles,  in  order  to  lay  open  all  their  secrets  in 
the  coffee-room  of  the  King's  Arms  hotel !  He  never 
could  have  invented  the  great  subterraneous  cavern,  cime- 
tiere  et  salle  de  bat,  as  Jules  Janin  calls  it !  The  credit  of 
all  this  falls  upon  the  French  adaptors  of  Monsieur  Dick- 
ens's  romance  ;  and  so  it  will  be  advisable  to  let  the  pub- 
lic know. 

But  as  the  French  play-writers  are  better  than  Dick- 
ens, being  incomparably  more  imaginative  and  poetic,  so, 
in  progression,  is  the  French  critic,  Jules  Janin,  above 
named,  a  million  times  superior  to  the  French  play- 
wrights, and,  after  Janin,  Dickens  disappears  altogether. 
He  is  cut  up,  disposed  of,  done  for.  J.  J.  has  hacked  him 
into  small  pieces,  and  while  that  wretched  romancer  is 
amusing  himself  across  the  Atlantic,  and  fancying,  per- 
haps, that  he  is  a  popular  character,  his  business  has  been 
done  for  ever  and  ever  in  Europe.  "What  matters  that 
he  is  read  by  millions  in  England  and  billions  in  Amer- 
ica? that  everybody  who  understands  English  had  a  cor- 
ner in  his  heart  for  him  ?  The  great  point  is,  what  does 
Jules  Janin  think  ?  and  that  we  shall  hear  presently ;  for 
though  I  profess  the  greatest  admiration  for  Mr.  Dickens, 
yet  there  can  be  no  reason  why  one  should  deny  one's  self 
the  little  pleasure  of  acquainting  him  that  some  ill-dis- 
posed persons  in  the  world  are  inclined  to  abuse  him. 
"Without  this  privilege  what  is  friendship  good  for? 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  113 

Who  is  Janin  ?  He  is  the  critic  of  France.  J.  J.,  in 
fact,  —  the  man  who  writes  a  weekly  fueilleton  in  the 
"  Journal  des  Debats "  with  such  indisputable  brilliancy 
and  wit,  and  such  a  happy  mixture  of  effrontery,  and  hon- 
esty, and  poetry,  and  impudence,  and  falsehood,  and  im- 
pertinence, and  good  feeling,  that  one  can't  fail  to  be 
charmed  with  the  compound,  and  to  look  rather  eagerly 
for  the  Monday's  paper ;  Jules  Janin  is  the  man,  who,  not 
knowing  a  single  word  of  the  English  language,  as  he 
actually  professes  in  the  preface,  has  helped  to  translate 
the  Sentimental  Journey.  He  is  the  man,  who,  when  he 
was  married  (in  a  week  when  news  were  slack  no  doubt), 
actually  criticised  his  own  marriage  ceremony,  letting  all 
the  public  see  the  proof-sheets  of  his  bridal,  as  was  the 
custom  among  certain  ancient  kings,  I  believe..  In  fact, 
a  more  modest,  honest,  unassuming,  blushing,  truth-tell- 
ing, gentlemanlike  J.  J.  it  is  impossible  to  conceive. 

Well,  he  has  fallen  foul  of  Monsieur  Dickens,  this  fat 
French  moralist ;  he  says  Dickens  is  immodest,  and  Jules 
cannot  abide  immodesty ;  and  a  great  and  conclusive 
proof  this  is  upon  a  question  which  the'two  nations  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  arguing,  namely,  which  of  the 
two  is  the  purer  in  morals  ?  and  may  be  argued  clear 
thus :  — 

1.  We  in  England  are  accustomed  to  think  Dickens 
modest,  and  allow  our  children  to  peruse  his  works. 

2.  In  France,  the  man  who  wrote  the  history  of  "  The 
Dead  Donkey  and  the  Guillotined  Woman,"*  and  after- 
wards his  own   epithalamium  in  the  newspaper,  is  re- 
volted by  Dickens. 

3.  Therefore  Dickens  must  be  immodest,  and  grossly 

*  Some  day  the  writer  meditates  a  great  and  splendid  review  of 
J.  J.'s  work. 

H 


114  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

immodest,  otherwise  a  person  so  confessedly  excellent  as 
J.  J.  would  never  have  discovered  the  crime. 

4.  And  therefore  it  is  pretty  clear  that  the  French 
morals  are  of  a  much  higher  order  than  our  own,  which 
remark  will  apply  to  persons  and  books,  and  all  Jhe  rela- 
tions of  private  and  public  life. 

Let  us  now  see  how  our  fat  Jules  attacks  Dickens. 
His  remarks  on  him  begin  in  the  following  jocular 
way:  — 

"THEATRE  DB  I/AMBIGU-COMIQUE. 
"  Nicolas  Nickleby,  Melodrame,  en  Six  Actes. 

"  A  genoux  devant  celui-la  qui  s'appelle  Charles  Dickens ! 
a  genoux  !  II  a  accompli  a  lui  seul  ce  que  n'ont  pu  faire  k  eux 
deux  Lord  Byron  et  Walter  Scott !  Joignez-y,  si  vous  voulez, 
Pope  et  Milton  et  tout  ce  que  la  litterature  Anglaise  a  produit 
de  plus  solennel  et  de  plus  charmant.  Charles  Dickens  !  mais 
il  n'est  question  que  de  lui  en  Angleterre.  II  en  est  la  gloire, 
et  la  joie,  et  1'orgueil !  Savez-vous  combien  d'acheteurs  pos- 
sede  ce  Dickens;  j'ai  dit  d'acheteurs,  de  gens  qui  tirent  leur 
argent  du  leur  bourse  pour  que  cet  argent  passe  de  leur  main 
dans  la  main  du  libraire  ?  —  Dix  mille  acheteurs.  Dix  mille  ? 
que  disons-nous,  dix  mille !  vingt  mille !  —  Vingt  mille  ?  Quoi ! 
vingt  mille  acheteurs  ?  —  Fi  done,  vingt  mille  !  quarante  mille 
acheteurs.  —  Eh  quoi !  il  a  trouve  quarante  mille  acheteurs, 
vous  vous  moquez  de  nous  sans  doute  ?  —  Oui,  mon  brave 
homme  on  se  rnoque  de  vous,  car  ce  n'est  pas  vingt  mille  et 
quarante  mille  et  soixante  mille  acheteurs  qu'a  rencontres  ce 
Charles  Dickens,  c'est  cent  mille  acheteurs.  Cent  mille,  pas 
un  de  moins.  Cent  mille  esclaves,  cent  mille  tributaires,  cent 
mille !  Et  mes  grands  ecrivains  modernes  s'estiment  bien 
heureux  et  bien  fiers  quand  leur  livre  le  plus  vante  parvient, 
au  bout  de  six  mois  de  celebrite,  a  son  huitieme  cent ! " 

There  is  raillery  for  you !  there  is  a  knowledge  of 
English  literature,  —  of  "  Pope  et  Milton,  si  solennel  et 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  115 

si  charmant ! "  Milton,  above  all ;  his  little  comedie 
"  Samson  1'Agoniste  "  is  one  of  the  gayest  and  most  grace- 
ful trifles  that  ever  was  acted  on  the  stage.  And  to  think 
that  Dickens  has  sold  more  copies  of  his  work  than  the 
above  two  eminent  hommes-de-lettres,  and  Scott  and  By- 
ron into  the  bargain !  It  is  a  fact,  and  J.  J.  vouches  for 
it.  To  be  sure,  J.  J.  knows  no  more  of  English  litera- 
ture than  I  do  of  hieroglyphics,  —  to  be  sure,  he  has  not 
one  word  of  English.  N'importe :  he  has  had  the  advan- 
tage of  examining  the  books  of  Mr.  Dickens's  publishers, 
and  has  discovered  that  they  sell  of  Boz's  works  "  cent 
mille,  pas  un  de  moins"  Janin  will  not  allow  of  one  less. 
Can  you  answer  numbers  ?  And  there  are  our  grands 
ecrivains  modernes,  who  are  happy  if  they  sell  eight  hun- 
dred in  six  months.  Byron  and  Scott  doubtless,  "le 
solennel  Pope,  et  le  charmant  Milton,"  as  well  as  other 
geniuses  not  belonging  to.  the  three  kingdoms.  If  a  man 
is  an  arithmetician  as  well  as  a  critic,  and  we  join  to- 
gether figures  of  speech  and  Arabic  numerals,  there  is  no 
knowing  what  he  may  not  prove. 
"  Or"  continues  J.  J. :  — 

"  Or,  parmi  les  chefs-d'oeuvre  de  sa  fa9on  que  devore  PAn- 
gleterre,  ce  Charles  Dickens  a  produit  un  gros  melodrame  en 
deux  gros  volumes,  intitule  Nicolas  Nickleby.  Ce  livre  a 
ete  traduit  chez  nous  par  un  homme  de  beaucoup  d'esprit,  qui 
n'est  pas  fait  pour  ce  triste  metier-la.  Si  vous  saviez  ce  que 
peut-etre  un  pareil  chef-d'oeuvre,  certes  vouz  prendriez  en  pitie 
les  susdits  cent  mille  souscripteurs  de  Charles  Dickens.  Fi- 
gurez-vous  done  un  amas  d'inventions  pueriles,  ou  1'horrible 
et  le  niais  se  donnent  la  main,  dans  une  ronde  infernale ;  ici 
passent  en  riant  de  bonnes  gens  si  bons  qu'ils  en  sont  tout-a- 
fait  betes  ;  plus  loin  bondissent  et  blasphement  toutes  sortes  de 
bandits,  de  fripons,  de  voleurs  et  de  miserables  si  affreux  qu'on 
ne  sait  pas  comment  pourrait  vivre,  seulement  vingt-quatre 


116  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

heures,  une  societe  ainsi  composes.  C'est  le  plus  nauseabond 
melange  qu'on  puisse  imaginer  de  lait  chaud  et  de  bierre 
tournee,  d'ceufs  frais  et  de  bceuf  sale,  de  haillons  et  d'habits 
brodes,  d'ecus  d'or  et  de  gros  sous,  de  roses  et  de  pissenlits. 
On  se  bat,  on  s'embrasse,  on  s'injurie,  on  s'enivre,  on  meurt  de 
faim.  Les  filles  de  la  rue  et  les  lords  de  la  Chambre  haute,  les 
portefaix  et  les  poetes,  les  ecoliers  et  les  voleurs,  se  promenent, 
bras  dessus  bras  dessous,  au  milieu  de  ce  tohubohu  insup- 
portable. Aimez-vous  la  fumee  de  tabac,  Podeur  de  Tail,  le 
gout  du  pore  frais,  I'harmonie  que  fait  un  plat  d'etain  frappe 
contre  une  casserole  de  cuivre  non  etame  ?  Lisez-moi  con- 
sciencieusement  ce  livre  de  Charles  Dickens.  Quelles  plaies  ! 
quelles  pustules!  et  que  de  saintes  vertus !  Ce  Dickens  a 
reuni  en  bloc  toutes  les  descriptions  de  Guzman  d'Alfarache  et 
tous  les  reves  de  Grandisson.  Oh !  qu'etes-vous  devenus, 
vous  les  lectrices  tant  soit  peu  prudes  des  romans  de  Walter 
Scott  ?  Oh !  qu'a-t-on  fait  de  vous,  les  lectrices  animees  de 
Don  Juan  et  de  Lara  ?  O  vous,  les  chastes  enthousiastes  de 
la  Clarisse  Harlowe,  voilez-vous  la  face  de  honte !  A  cent 
mille  exemplaires  le  Charles  Dickens ! " 

To  what  a  pitch  of  devergondago  must  the  English 
ladies  have  arrived,  when  a  fellow  who  can  chronicle  his 
own  marriage,  and  write  the  "  The  Dead  Donkey  and 
the  Guillotined  Woman,"  —  when  even  a  man  like  that, 
whom  nobody  can  accuse  of  being  squeamish,  is  obliged 
to  turn  away  with  disgust  at  their  monstrous  immodesty ! 

J.  J.  is  not  difficult;  a  little  harmless  gallantry  and 
trifling  with  the  seventh  commandment  does  not  offend 
him,  —  far  from  it.  Because  there  are  no  love-intrigues 
in  Walter  Scott,  Jules  says  that  Scott's  readers  are  tant 
soit  peu  prudes  !  There  ought  to  be,  in  fact,  in  life  and 
in  novels,  a  little,  pleasant,  gentlemanlike,  anti-seventh- 
commandment  excitement.  Read  "The  Dead  Donkey 
and  the  Guillotined  Woman,"  and  you  will  see  how  the 
thing  may  be  agreeably  and  genteelly  done.  See  what 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  117 

he  says  of  "  Clarisse,"  —  it  is  chaste  ;  of  "  Don  Juan,"  — 
it  is  not  indecent,  it  is  not  immoral,  it  is  only  ANIMEE  ! 
Animee  !  O  ciel !  what  a  word  !  Could  any  but  a  French- 
man have  had  the  grace  to  hit  on  it  ?  "  Animation  "  our 
Jules  can  pardon;  prudery  he  can  excuse,  in  his  good- 
humored,  contemptuous  way ;  but  Dickens,  —  this  Dick- 
ens, —  0  fie !  And,  perhaps,  there  never  was  a  more 
succinct,  complete,  elegant,  just,  and  satisfactory  account 
given  of  a  book  than  that  by  our  friend  Jules  of  "  Nicho- 
las Nickleby."  "  It  is  the  most  disgusting  mixture  imag- 
inable of  warm  milk  and  sour  beer,  of  fresh  eggs  and  salt 
beef,  of  rags  and  laced  clothes,  of  gold  crowns  and  cop- 
pers, of  roses  and  dandelions." 

There  is  a  receipt  for  you !  or  take  another,  which  is 
quite  as  pleasant:  — 

IT. 

"  The  fumes  of  tobacco,  the  odor  of  garlic,  the  taste  of 
fresh  pork,  the  harmony  made  by  striking  a  pewter  plate 
against  an  untinned  copper  saucepan.  Read  me  consci- 
entiously this  book  of  Charles  Dickens  ;  what  sores  !  what 
pustules ! "  &c. 

Try  either  mixture  (and  both  are  curious),  —  for  fresh 
pork  is  an  ingredient  in  one,  salt  beef  in  another;  to- 
bacco and  garlic  in  receipt  No.  2  agreeably  take  the 
places  of  warm  milk  and  sour  beer  in  formula  No.  1 ; 
and  whereas,  in  the  second  prescription,  a  pewter  plate 
and  untinned  copper  saucepan  (what  a  devilish  satire  ia 
that  epithet  untinned!),  a  gold  crown  and  a  few  half- 
pence, answer  in  the  first.  Take  either  mixture,  and  the 
result  is  a  Dickens.  Hang  thyself,  thou  unhappy  writer 
of  Pickwick  ;  or,  blushing  at  this  exposition  of  thy  faults, 
turn  red  man  altogether,  and  build  a  wigwam  in  a  wilder- 


118  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

ness,  and  live  with  'possums  up  gum-trees.     Fresh  pork 

and  warm  milk ;  sour  beer  and  salt  b Faugh !  how 

could  you  serve  us  so  atrociously  ? 

And  this  is  one  of  the  "  chefs-d'o3uvre  de  sa  faco?i  que 
devore  1'Angleterre."  The  beastly  country !  How  Jules 
lashes  the  islanders  with  the  sting  of  that  epigram, — 
chefs-d'oeuvre  de  leur  facon  ! 

***** 

Look  you,  J.  J.,  it  is  time  that  such  impertinence 
should  cease.  Will  somebody,  —  out  of  three  thousand 
literary  men  in  France,  there  are  about  three  who  have 
a  smattering  of  the  English,  —  will  some  one  of  the  three 
explain  to  J.  J.  the  enormous  folly  and  falsehood  of  all 
that  the  fellow  has  been  saying  about  Dickens  and  Eng- 
lish literature  generally  ?  We  have  in  England  literary 
chefs-d'oeuvre  de  noire  facon,  and  are  by  no  means 
ashamed  to  devour  the  same.  "  Le  charmant  Milton " 
was  not,  perhaps,  very  skilled  for  making  epigrams  and 
chansons-a-boire,  but,  after  all,  was  a  person  of  merit, 
and  of  his  works  have  been  sold  considerably  more  than 
eight  hundred  copies.  "  Le  solennel  Pope  "  was  a  writer 
not  undeserving  of  praise.  There  must  have  been  some- 
thing worthy  in  Shakespeare,  —  for  his  name  has  pene- 
trated even  to  France,  where  he  is  not  unfrequently 
called  "  le  Sublime  Williams."  Walter  Scott,  though  a 
prude,  as  you  say,  and  not  having  the  agreeable  laisser- 
aller  of  the  author  of  the  Dead  Donkey,  &c.,  could  still 
turn  off  a  romance  pretty  creditably.  He  and  "  le  Sub- 
lime Williams  "  between  them  have  turned  your  French 
literature  topsy-turvy ;  and  many  a  live  donkey  of  your 
crew  is  trying  to  imitate  their  paces  and  their  roars,  and 
to  lord  it  like  those  dead  lions.  These  men  made  chefs- 
d'oeuvre  de  notre  facon,  and  we  are  by  no  means  ashamed 
to  acknowledge  them. 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  119 

But  what  right  have  you,  0  blundering  ignorances !  to 
pretend  to  judge  them  and  their  works,  —  you,  who 
might  as  well  attempt  to  give  a  series  of  lectures  upon 
the  literature  of  the  Hottentots,  and  are  as  ignorant  of 
English  as  the  author  of  the  Random  Recollections  f 
Learn  modesty,  Jules ;  Listen  to  good  advice ;  and  when 
you  say  to  other  persons,  lisez  moi  ce  livre  consciencieuse- 
ment,  at  least  do  the  same  thing,  O  critic!  before  you 
attempt  to  judge  and  arbitrate. 

And  I  am  ready  to  take  an  affidavit  in  the  matter  of 
this  criticism  of  Nicholas  Nickleby,  that  the  translator  of 
Sterne,  who  does  not  know  English,  has  not  read  Boz  in 
the  original,  —  has  not  even  read  him  in  the  translation, 
and  slanders  him  out  of  pure  invention.  Take  these  con- 
cluding opinions  of  J.  J.  as  a  proof  of  the  fact :  — 

"  De  ce  roman  de  Nicolas  NicHeby  a  ete  tire  le  melodrame 
qui  va  suivre.  Commencez  d'abord  par  entasser  les  souter- 
rains  sur  les  tenebres,  le  vice  sur  le  sang,  le  mensonge  sur  1'in- 
jure,  I'adultere  sur  I'inceste,  battez-moi  tout  ce  melange,  et 
vous  verrez  ce  que  vous  allez  voir. 

"  Dans  un  comte  Anglais,  dans  une  ecole,  ou  plutot  dans 
une  horrible  prison  habitee  par  le  froid  et  la  faim,  un  nomme 
Squeers  entraine,  sous  pretexte  de  les  elever  dans  la  belle  dis- 
cipline, tous  les  enfans  qu'on  lui  confie.  Ce  miserable  Squeers 
specule  tout  simplement  sur  la  faim,  sur  la  soif,  sur  les  habits 
de  ces  pauvres  petits.  On  n'entend  que  le  bruit  des  verges, 
les  soupirs  des  battus,  les  cris  des  battans,  les  blasphemes  du 
maitre.  C'est  affreux  a  lire  et  a  voir.  Surtout  ce  qui  fait  peur 
(je  parle  du  livre  en  question),  c'est  la  misere  d'un  pauvre 
petit  nomme  Smilke,  dont  cet  affreux  Squeers  est  le  bour- 
reau.  Quand  parut  le  livre  de  Charles  Dickens,  on  raconte 
que  plus  d'un  maitre  de  pension  de  TAngleterre  se  recria 
centre  la  calomnie.  Mais,  juste  ciel !  si  la  cent  millieme  partie 
d'une  pareille  honte  etait  possible ;  s'il  etait  vrai  qu'un  seul 


120  DICKENS  IN  FRANCE. 

marchand  de  chair  humaine  ainsi  bati  put  exister  de  1'autre 
cote  du  detroit,  ce  serait  le  deshonneur  d'une  nation  tout  en- 
tiere.  Et  si  en  effet  la  chose  est  impossible,  que  venez-vous 
done  nous  conter,  que  le  roman,  tout  comme  la  comedie,  est  la 
peinture  des  moeurs  ? 

"  Or  ce  petit  malheureux  couvert  de  haillons  et  de  plaies,  le 
jouet  de  M.  Squeers,  c'est  tout  simplement  le  fils  unique  de 
Lord  Clarendon,  un  des  plus  grands  seigneurs  de TAngleterre. 
Voila  justement  ce  que  je  disais  tout  k  1'heure.  Dans  ces  ro- 
mans  qui  sont  le  rebut  d'une  imagination  en  delire,  il  n'y  a 
pas  de  milieu.  Ou  bien  vous  etes  le  dernier  des  mendians 
charges  d'une  besace  vide,  ou  bien,  salut  a  vous !  vous  etes 
due  et  pair  du  royaume  et  chevalier  de  la  Jarretiere !  Ou  le 
manteau  royal  ou  le  haillon.  Quelquefois,  pour  varier  la 
these,  on  vous  met  par  dessus  vos  haillons  le  manteau  de 
pourpre.  —  Votre  tete  est  pleine  de  vermine,  a  la  bonne 
heure !  mais  laissez  faire  le  romancier,  il  posera  tout  &  1'heure 
sur  vos  immondes  cheveux  la  couronne  ducale.  Ainsi  prece- 
dent M.  Dickens  et  le  Capitaine  Marryat  et  tous  les  autres." 

Here  we  have  a  third  receipt  for  the  confection  of 
Nicholas  Nicklefy,  —  darkness  and  caverns,  vice  and 
blood,  incest  and  adultery,  "  battez  mots  tout  $a"  and  the 
thing  is  done.  Considering  that  Mr.  Dickens  has  not 
said  a  word  about  darkness,  about  caverns,  about  blood 
(further  than  a  little  harmless  claret  drawn  from  Squeers's 
nose),  about  the  two  other  crimes  mentioned  by  J.  J., — 
is  it  not  de  luxe  to  put  them  into  the  Nickleby-receipt  ? 
Having  read  the  romances  of  his  own  country,  and  no 
others,  J.  J.  thought  he  was  safe,  no  doubt,  in  introducing 
the  last-named  ingredients ;  but  in  England  the  people  is 
still  tant  soit  pen  prudes,  and  will  have  none  such  fare. 
In  what  a  luxury  of  filth,  too,  does  this  delicate  critic  in- 
dulge !  votre  tete  est  pleine  de  vermine  (a  flattering  sup- 
position for  the  French  reader,  by  the  way,  and  remark- 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  121 

able  for  its  polite  propriety).  Your  head  is  in  this  con- 
dition ;  but  never  mind ;  let  the  romancer  do  his  work, 
and  he  will  presently  place  upon  your  filthy  hair  (kind 
again)  the  ducal  coronet.  This  is  the  way  with  Monsieur 
Dickens,  Captain  Marryat,  and  the  others. 

With  whom,  in  Heaven's  name?  What  has  poor 
Dickens  ever  had  to  do  with  ducal  crowns,  or  with  the 
other  ornaments  of  the  kind  which  Monsieur  Jules  dis- 
tributes to  his  friends  ?  Tell  lies  about  men,  friend  Jules, 
if  you  will,  but  not  such  lies.  See,  for  the  future,  that 
they  have  a  greater  likelihood  about  them  j  and  try  if,  at 
least  when  you  are  talking  of  propriety  and  decency  of 
behavior,  to  have  your  words  somewhat  more  cleanly, 
and  your  own  manners  as  little  offensive  as  possible. 

And  with  regard  to  the  character  of  Squeers,  the  im- 
possibility of  it,  and  the  consequent  folly  of  placing  such 
a  portrait  in  a  work  that  pretends  to  be  a  painting  of 
manners,  that,  too,  is  a  falsehood  like  the  rest.  Such  a 
disgrace  to  human  nature  not  only  existed,  but  existed  in 
J.  J.'s  country  of  France.  Who  does  not  remember  the 
history  of  the  Boulogne  schoolmaster,  a  year  since,  whom 
the  newspapers  called  the  "  French  Squeers  " ;  and  about 
the  same  time,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris,  there  was  a 
case  still  more  atrocious,  of  a  man  and  his  wife  who 
farmed  some  score  of  children,  subjected  them  to  ill- 
treatment  so  horrible,  that  only  J.  J.  himself,  in  his  nasti- 
est fit  of  indignation,  could  describe  it;  and  ended  by 
murdering  one  or  two,  and  starving  all.  The  whole  story 
was  in  the  Debats,  J.  J.'s  own  newspaper,  where  the  ac- 
complished critic  may  read  it. 


JOHN   LEECH'S   PICTURES   OF   LIFE  AND 
CHARACTER. 

|E,  who  recall  the  consulship  of  Plancus,  and 
quite  respectable  old-fogeyfied  times,  remem- 
ber, amongst  other  amusements  which  we  had 
as  children,  the  pictures  at  which  we  were 
permitted  to  look.  There  was  Boydell's  Shakespeare, 
^  black  and  ghastly  gallery  of  murky  Opies,  glum  North- 
cotes,  straddling  Fuselis !  there  were  Lear,  Oberon,  Ham- 
let, with  starting  muscles,  rolling  eyeballs,  and  long  point- 
ing quivering  fingers ;  there  was  little  Prince  Arthur 
(Northcote)  crying,  in  white  satin,  and  bidding  good 
Hubert  not  put  out  his  eyes ;  there  was  Hubert  crying ; 
there  was  little  Rutland  being  run  through  the  poor  little 
body  by  bloody  Clifford;  there  was  Cardinal  Beaufort 
(Reynolds)  gnashing  his  teeth,  and  grinning  and  howling 
demoniacally  on  his  death-bed  (a  picture  frightful  to  the 
present  day) ;  there  was  Lady  Hamilton  (Romney)  wav- 
ing a  torch  and  dancing  before  a  black  background,  — 
a  melancholy  museum  indeed.  Smirke's  delightful  Seven 
Ages  only  fitfully  relieved  its  general  gloom.  We  did 
not  like  to  inspect  it  unless  the  elders  were  present,  and 
plenty  of  lights  and  company  were  in  the  room. 

Cheerful  relatives  used  to  treat  us  to  Miss  Linwood's. 
Let  the  children  of  the  present  generation  thank  their 


LIFE  AND   CHARACTEH.  123 

stars  that  tragedy  is  put  out  of  their  way.  Miss  Lin- 
wood's  was  worsted  work.  Your  grandmother  or  grand- 
aunts  took  you  there,  and  said  the  pictures  were  admira- 
ble. You  saw  "  The  Woodman "  in  worsted,  with  his 
axe  and  dog,  trampling  through  the  snow  ;  the  snow  bit- 
ter cold  to  look  at,  the  woodman's  pipe  wonderful ;  a 
gloomy  piece,  that  made  you  shudder.  There  were  large 
dingy  pictures  of  woollen  martyrs,  and  scowling  warriors 
with  limbs  strongly  knitted ;  there  was  especially,  at  the 
end  of  a  black  passage,  a  den  of  lions,  that  would  frighten 
any  boy  not  born  in  Africa,  or  Exeter  Change,  and  ac- 
customed to  them. 

Another  exhibition  used  to  be  West's  Gallery,  where 
the  pleasing  figures  of  Lazarus  in  his  grave-clothes,  and 
Death  on  the  Pale  Horse,  used  to  impress  us  children. 
The  tombs  of  Westminster  Abbey,  the  vaults  at  St. 
Paul's,  the  men  in  armor  at  the  Tower,  frowning  fero- 
ciously out  of  their  helmets,  and  wielding  their  dreadful 
swords ;  that  superhuman  Queen  Elizabeth  at  the  end  of 
the  room,  a  livid  sovereign  with  glass  eyes,  a  ruff,  and  a 
dirty  satin  petticoat,  riding  a  horse  covered  with  steel : 
who  does  not  remember  these  sights  in  London  in  the 
consulship  of  Plancus  ?  and  the  waxwork  in  Fleet  Street, 
not  like  that  of  Madame  Tussaud's,  whose  chamber  of 
death  is  gay  and  brilliant,  but  a  nice  old  gloomy  wax- 
work, full  of  murderers;  and  as  a  chief  attraction,  the 
dead  baby  and  the  Princess  Charlotte  lying  in  state. 

Our  story-books  had  no  pictures  in  them  for  the  most 
part.  Frank  (dear  old  Frank !)  had  none  ;  nor  the  Par- 
ent's Assistant ;  nor  the  Evenings  at  Home ;  nor  our 
copy  of  the  Ami  des  Enfans :  there  were  a  few  just  at 
the  end  of  the  Spelling  Book ;  besides  the  allegory  at  the 
beginning,  of  Education  leading  up  Youth  to  the  temple 


124  JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OF 

of  Industry,  where  Dr.  Dilworth  and  Professor  Walking- 
hame  stood  with  crowns  of  laurel ;  there  were,  we  say, 
just  a  few  pictures  at  the  end  of  the  Spelling  Book,  little 
oval  gray  woodcuts  of  Bewick's,  mostly  of  the  Wolf  and 
the  Lamb,  the  Dog  and  the  Shadow,  and  Brown,  Jones, 
and  Robinson  with  long  ringlets  and  little  tights  ;  but  for 
pictures,  so  to  speak,  what  had  we  ?  The  rough  old 
wood-blocks  in  the  old  harlequin-backed  fairy-books  had 
served  hundreds  of  years ;  before  our  Plancus,  in  the 
time  of  Priscus  Plancus,  —  in  Queen  Anne's  time,  who 
knows  ?  We  were  flogged  at  school ;  we  were  fifty  boys 
in  our  boarding-house,  and  had  to  wash  in  a  leaden 
trough,  under  a  cistern,  with  lumps  of  fat  yellow  soap 
floating  about  in  the  ice  and  water.  Are  our  sons  ever 
flogged?  Have  they  not  dressing-rooms,  hair-oil,  hip- 
baths, and  Baden  towels  ?  And  what  picture-books  the 
young  villains  have !  What  have  these  children  done 
that  they  should  be  so  much  happier  than  we  were  ? 

We  had  the  Arabian  Nights  and  Walter  Scott,  to  be 
sure.  Smirke's  illustrations  to  the  former  are  very  fine. 
We  did  not  know  how  good  they  were  then ;  but  we 
doubt  whether  we  did  not  prefer  the  little  old  Miniature 
Library  Nights  with  frontispieces  by  Uwins ;  for  these 
books  the  pictures  don't  count.  Every  boy  of  imagina- 
tion does  his  own  pictures  to  Scott  and  the  Arabian 
Nights  best. 

Of  funny  pictures  there  were  none  especially  intended 
for  us  children.  There  was  Rowlandson's  Dr.  Syntax : 
Doctor  Syntax,  in  a  fuzz-wig,  on  a  horse  with  legs  like 
sausages,  riding  races,  making  love,  frolicking  with  rosy 
exuberant  damsels.  Those  pictures  were  very  funny, 
and  that  aqua-tinting  and  the  gay-colored  plates  very 
pleasant  to  witness ;  but  if  we  could  not  read  the  poem 


LIFE  AND  CHARACTER.  125 

in  those  days,  could  we  digest  it  in  this  ?  Nevertheless, 
apart  from  the  text  which  we  could  not  master,  we  re- 
member Dr.  Syntax  pleasantly,  like  those  cheerful  paint- 
ed hieroglyphics  in  the  Nineveh  Court  at  Sydenham. 
What  matter  for  the  arrow-head,  illegible  stuff?  give  us 
the  placid  grinning  kings,  twanging  their  jolly  bows  over 
their  rident  horses,  wounding  those  good-humored  ene- 
mies, who  tumble  gayly  off  the  towers,  or  drown,  smiling 
in  the  dimpling  waters,  amidst  the  anerithmon  gelasma 
of  the  fish. 

After  Dr.  Syntax,  the  apparition  of  Corinthian  Tom, 
Jerry  Hawthorne,  and  the  facetious  Bob  Logic  must  be 
recorded,  —  a  wondrous  history  indeed  theirs  was  !  When 
the  future  student  of  our  manners  comes  to  look  over  the 
pictures  and  the  writing  of  these  queer  volumes,  what 
will  he  think  of  our  society,  customs,  and  language  in  the 
consulship  of  Plancus  ?  We  have  still  in  our  mind's  eye 
some  of  the  pictures  of  that  sportive  gallery :  the  white 
coat,  Prussian-blue  pantaloons,  Hessian  boots,  and  hooked 
nose  of  Corinthian  Tom ;  Jerry's  green  cut-away  and 
leather  gaiters ;  Bob  Logic's  green  spectacles,  and  high- 
waisted  surtout.  "  Corinthian,"  it  appears,  was  the  phrase 
applied  to  men  of  fashion  and  ton  in  Plancus's  time: 
they  were  the  brilliant  predecessors  of  the  "  swell "  of  the 
present  period,  —  brilliant,  but  somewhat  barbarous  it 
must  be  confessed.  The  Corinthians  were  in  the  habit 
of  drinking  a  great  deal  too  much  in  Tom  Cribb's  parlor; 
they  used  to  go  and  see  "  life  "  in  the  ginshops  ;  of  nights, 
walking  home  (as  well  as  they  could),  they  used  to  knock 
down  "  Charleys,"  poor  harmless  old  watchmen  with  lan- 
terns, guardians  of  the  streets  of  Rome,  Planco  Consule. 
They  perpetrated  a  vast  deal  of  boxing ;  they  put  on  the 
"  mufflers "  in  Jackson's  rooms ;  they  "  sported  their 


126  JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OF 

prads "  in  the  Ring  in  the  Park ;  they  attended  cock- 
fights, and  were  enlightened  patrons  of  dogs  and  destroy- 
ers of  rats.  Besides  these  sports,  the  delassemens  of  gen- 
tlemen mixing  with  the  people,  our  patricians,  of  course, 
occasionally  enjoyed  the  society  of  their  own  class.  What 
a  wonderful  picture  that  used  to  be  of  Corinthian  Tom 
dancing  with  Corinthian  Kate  at  Almack's !  What  a 
prodigious  dress  Kate  wore  !  With  what  graceful  aban- 
don the  pair  flung  their  arms  about  as  they  swept  through 
the  mazy  quadrille,  with  all  the  noblemen  standing  round 
in  their  stars  and  uniforms !  You  may  still,  doubtless, 
see  the  pictures  at  the  British  Museum,  or  find  the  vol- 
umes in  the  corner  of  some  old  country-house  library. 
You  are  led  to  suppose  that  the  English  aristocracy  of 
1820  did  dance  and  caper  in  that  way,  and  box  and  drink 
at  Tom  Cribb's,  and  knock  down  watchmen ;  and  the 
children  of  to-day,  turning  to  their  elders,  may  say, 
"  Grandmamma,  did  you  wear  such  a  dress  as  that  when 
you  danced  at  Almack's  ?  There  was  very  little  of  it, 
grandmamma.  Did  grandpapa  kill  many  watchmen 
when  he  was  a  young  man,  and  frequent  thieves,  gin- 
shops,  cock-fights,  and  the  ring  before  you  married  him  ? 
Did  he  use  to  talk  the  extraordinary  slang  and  jargon 
which  is  printed  in  this  book  ?  He  is  very  much  changed. 
He  seems  a  gentlemanly  old  boy  enough  now." 

In  the  above-named  consulate,  when  we  had  grand- 
fathers alive,  there  would  be  in  the  old  gentleman's 
library  in  the  country  two  or  three  old  mottled  portfo- 
lios, or  great  swollen  scrap-books  of  blue  paper,  full  of 
the  comic  prints  of  grandpapa's  time,  ere  Plancus  ever 
had  the  fasces  borne  before  him.  These  prints  were 
signed  Gillray,  Bunbury,  Rowlandson,  Woodward,  and 
some  actually  George  Cruikshank,  for  George  is  a  vete- 


LIFE  AND   CHARACTER.  127 

ran  now,  and  he  took  the  etching  needle  in  hand  as  a 
child.  He  caricatured  "  Boney,"  borrowing  not  a  little 
from  Gillray  in  his  first  puerile  efforts.  He  drew  Louis 
XVIII.  trying  on  Boney's  boots;  Before  the  century 
was  actually  in  its  teens  we  believe  that  George  Cruik- 
shank  was  amusing  the  public. 

In  those  great  colored  prints  in  our  grandfather's  port- 
folios in  the  library,  and  in  some  other  apartments  of  the 
house,  where  the  caricatures  used  to  be  pasted  in  those 
days,  we  found  things  quite  beyond  our  comprehension. 
Boney  was  represented  as  a  fierce  dwarf,  with  goggle 
eyes,  a  huge  lace  hat,  and  tricolored  plume,  a  crooked 
sabre,  reeking  with  blood,  —  a  little  demon,  revelling  in 
lust,  murder,  massacre.  John  Bull  was  shown  kicking 
him  a  good  deal ;  indeed,  he  was  prodigiously  kicked  all 
through  that  series  of  pictures  ;  by  Sydney  Smith  and  our 
brave  allies  the  gallant  Turks ;  by  the  excellent  and 
patriotic  Spaniards  ;  by  the  amiable  and  indignant  Rus- 
sians, —  all  nations  had  boots  at  the  service  of  poor 
Master  Boney.  How  Pitt  used  to  defy  him !  How 
good  old  George,  King  of  Brobdignag,  laughed  at  Gul- 
liver-Boney,  sailing  about  in  his  tank  to  make  sport  for 
their  majesties  !  This  little  fiend,  this  beggar's  brat, 
cowardly,  murderous,  and  atheistic  as  he  was  (we  re- 
member in  those  old  portfolios,  pictures  representing 
Boney  and  his  family  in  rags,  gnawing  raw  bones  in  a 
Corsican  hut ;  Boney  murdering  the  sick  at  Jaffa ;  Boney 
with  a  hookah  and  a  large  turban,  having  adopted  the 
Turkish  religion,  &c.),  —  this  Corsican  monster,  never- 
theless, had  some  devoted  friends  in  England,  according 
to  the  Gillray  chronicle,  —  a  set  of  villains  who  loved 
atheism,  tyranny,  plunder,  and  wickedness,  in  general, 
like  their  French  friend.  In  the  pictures,  these  men 


128  JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OF 

were  all  represented  as  dwarfs,  like  their  ally.  The  mis- 
creants got  into  power  at  one  time,  and,  if  we  remember 
right,  were  called  the  Broadbacked  Administration.  One 
with  shaggy  eyebrows  and  a  bristly  beard,  the  hirsute 
ringleader  of  the  rascals,  was,  it  appears,  called  Charles 
James  Fox ;  another  miscreant,  with  a  blotched  counte- 
nance, was  a  certain  Sheridan ;  other  imps  were  hight 
Erskine,  Norfolk  (Jockey  of),  Moira,  Henry  Petty.  As 
in  our  childish  innocence  we  used  to  look  at  these  de- 
mons, now  sprawling  and  tipsy  in  their  cups ;  now  scaling 
heaven,  from  which  the  angelic  Pitt  hurled  them  down ; 
now  cursing  the  light  (their  atrocious  ringleader  Fox 
was  represented  with  hairy  cloven  feet,  and  a  tail  and 
horns)  ;  now  kissing  Boney's  boot,  but  inevitably  discom- 
fited by  Pitt  and  the  other  good  angels,  we  hated  these 
vicious  wretches,  as  good  children  should ;  we  were  on 
the  side  of  Virtue  and  Pitt  and  Grandpapa.  But  if  our 
sisters  wanted  to  look  at  the  portfolios,  the  good  old 
grandfather  used  to  hesitate.  There  were  some  prints 
among  them  very  odd  indeed ;  some  that  girls  could  not 
understand;  some  that  boys,  indeed,  had  best  not  see. 
We  swiftly  turn  over  those  prohibited  pages.  How 
many  of  them  were  in  the  wild,  coarse,  reckless,  ribald, 
generous  book  of  old  English  humor  ! 

How  savage  the  satire  was,  —  how  fierce  the  assault,  — 
what  garbage  hurled  at  opponents,  —  what  foul  blows 
were  hit,  —  what  language  of  Billingsgate  flung  !  Fancy 
a  party  in  a  country  house  now  looking  over  Woodward's 
facetia3,  or  some  of  the  Gillray  comicalities,  or  the  slat- 
ternly Saturnalia  of  Rowlandson  !  Whilst  we  live  we 
must  laugh,  and  have  folks  to  make  us  laugh.  We  can- 
not afford  to  lose  Satyr,  with  his  pipe  and  dances  and 
gambols.  But  we  have  washed,  combed,  clothed,  and 


LIFE  AND  CHARACTER.  129 

taught  the  rogue  good  manners  ;  or  rather,  let  us  say,  he 
has  learned  them  himself;  for  he  is  of  nature  soft  and 
kindly,  and  he  has  put  aside  his  mad  pranks  and  tipsy 
habits;  and,  frolicsome  always,  has  become  gentle  and 
harmless,  smitten  into  shame  by  the  pure  presence  of  our 
women  and  the  sweet  confiding  smiles  of  our  children. 
Among  the  veterans,  the  old  pictorial  satirists,  we  have 
mentioned  the  famous  name  of  one  humorous  designer 
who  is  still  alive  and  at  work.  Did  we  not  see,  by  his  own 
hand,  his  own  portrait  of  his  own  famous  face,  and  whisk- 
ers, in  the  "  Illustrated  London  News  "  the  other  day  ? 
There  was  a  print  in  that  paper  of  an  assemblage  of  Tea- 
totallers  in  Sadler's  Wells  Theatre,  and  we  straightway 
recognized  the  old  Roman  hand,  —  the  old  Roman's  of 
the  time  of  Plancus,  —  George  Cruikshank's.  There 
were  the  old  bonnets  and  droll  faces  and  shoes,  and  short 
trousers,  and  figures  of  1820,  sure  enough.  And  there 
was  George  (who  has  taken  to  the  water-doctrine,  as  all 
the  world  knows)  handing  some  teatotalleresses  over  a 
plank  to  the  table  where  the  pledge  was  being  adminis- 
tered. How  often  has  George  drawn  that  picture  of 
Cruikshank  !  Where  have  n't  we  seen  it  ?  How  fine  it 
was,  facing  the  effigy  of  Mr.  Ainsworth  in  "  Ainsworth's 
Magazine,"  when  George  illustrated  that  periodical ! 
How  grand  and  severe  he  stands  in  that  design  in  G.  C.'s 
"  Omnibus,"  where  he  represents  himself  tonged  like  St. 
Dunstan,  and  tweaking  a  wretch  of  a  publisher  by  the 
nose  !  The  collectors  of  George's  etchings,  —  O  the 
charming  etchings !  O  the  dear  old  German  popular 
tales  !  —  the  capital  "  Points  of  Humor,"  —  the  delightful 
Phrenology  and  scrap-books,  of  the  good  time,  our  time, 
—  Plancus's  in  fact,  —  the  collectors  of  the  Georgian  etch- 
ings, we  say,  have  at  least  a  hundred  pictures  of  the  artist. 
6*  i 


130  JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OF 

Why,  we  remember  him  in  his  favorite  Hessian  boots 
in  "  Tom  and  Jerry  "  itself;  and  in  woodcuts  as  far  back 
as  the  Queen's  trial.  He  has  rather  deserted  satire 
and  comedy  of  late  years,  having  turned  his  attention  to 
the  serious,  and  warlike,  and  sublime.  Having  confessed 
our  age  and  prejudices,  we  prefer  the  comic  and  fanciful 
to  the  historic,  romantic,  and  at  present  didactic  George. 
May  respect,  and  length  of  days,  and  comfortable  repose 
attend  the  brave,  honest,  kindly,  pure-minded  artist,  hu- 
morist, moralist !  It  was  he  first  who  brought  English 
pictorial  humor  and  children  acquainted.  Our  young 
people  and  their  fathers  and  mothers  owe  him  many  a 
pleasant  hour  and  harmless  laugh.  Is  there  no  way  in 
which  the  country  could  acknowledge  the  long  services 
and  brave  career  of  such  a  friend  and  benefactor  ? 

Since  George's  time  humor  has  been  converted.  Co- 
mus  and  his  wicked  satyrs  and  leering  fauns  have  disap- 
peared, and  fled  into  the  lowest  haunts  ;  and  Comus's 
lady  (if  she  had  a  taste  for  humor,  which  may  be  doubted) 
might  take  up  our  funny  picture-books  without  the  slight- 
est precautionary  squeamishness.  What  can  be  purer 
than  the  charming  fancies  of  Richard  Doyle  ?  In  all  Mr. 
Punch's  huge  galleries  can't  we  walk  as  safely  as  through 
Miss  Pinkerton's  school-rooms  ?  And  as  we  look  at  Mr. 
Punch's  pictures,  at  the  Illustrated  News  pictures,  at  all 
the  pictures  in  the  book-shop  windows  at  this  Christmas 
season,  as  oldsters,  we  feel  a  certain  pang  of  envy  against 
the  youngsters,  —  they  are  too  well  off.  Why  had  n't 
we  picture-books  ?  Why  were  we  flogged  so  ?  A  plague 
on  the  lictors  and  their  rods  in  the  time  of  Plancus ! 

And  now,  after  this  rambling  preface,  we  are  arrived 
at  the  subject  in  hand,  —  Mr.  John  Leech  and  his  "  Pic- 
tures of  Life  and  Character,"  in  the  collection  of  Mr. 


LIFE  AND  CHARACTER.  131 

Punch.  This  book  is  better  than  plum-cake  at  Christ- 
mas. It  is  an  enduring  plum-cake,  which  you  may  eat, 
and  which  you  may  slice  and  deliver  to  your  friends ; 
and  to  which,  having  cut  it,  you  may  come  again  and 
welcome,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  In  the  frontis- 
piece you  see  Mr.  Punch  examining  the  pictures  in  his 
gallery,  —  a  portly,  well-dressed,  middle-aged,  respectable 
gentleman,  in  a,  white  neckcloth,  'and  a  polite  evening 
costume, —  smiling  in  a  very  bland  and  agreeable  manner 
upon  one  of  his  pleasant  drawings,  taken  out  of  one  of  his 
handsome  portfolios.  Mr.  Punch  has  very  good  reason 
to  smile  at  the  work  and  be  satisfied  with  the  artist.  Mr. 
Leech,  his  chief  contributor,  and  some  kindred  humorists, 
with  pencil  and  pen  have  served  Mr.  Punch  admirably. 
Time  was,  if  we  remember  Mr.  P's  history  rightly,  that 
he  did  not  wear  silk  stockings  nor  well-made  clothes  (the 
little  dorsal  irregularity  in  his  figure  is  almost  an  orna- 
ment now,  so  excellent  a  tailor  has  he).  He  was  of  hum- 
ble beginnings.  It  is  said  he  kept  a  ragged  little  booth, 
which  he  put  up  at  corners  of  streets  ;  associated  with 
beadles,  policemen,  his  own  ugly  wife  (whom  he  treated 
most  scandalously),  and  persons  in  a  low  station  of  life  ; 
earning  a  precarious  livelihood  by  the  cracking  of  wild 
jokes,  the  singing  of  ribald  songs,  and  halfpence  extorted 
from  passers  by.  He  is  the  Satyric  genius  we  spoke 
of  anon :  he  cracks  his  jokes  still,  for  satire  must  live ; 
but  he  is  combed,  washed,  neatly  clothed,  and  perfectly 
presentable.  He  goes  into  the  very  best  company ;  he 
keeps  a  stud  at  Melton  ;  he  has  a  moor  in  Scotland ;  he 
rides  in  the  Park  ;  has  his  stall  at  the  opera ;  is  con- 
stantly dining  out  at  clubs  and  in  private  society ;  and 
goes  every  night  in  the  season  to  balls  and  parties,  where 
you  see  the  most  beautiful  women  possible.  He  is  wel- 


132        JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OF 

corned  amongst  his  new  friends,  the  great ;  though,  like 
the  good  old  English  gentleman  of  the  song,  he  does  not 
forget  the  small.  He  pats  the  heads  of  street  boys  and 
girls  ;  relishes  the  jokes  of  Jack  the  costermonger  and 
Bob  the  dustman;  good-naturedly  spies  out  Molly  the 
cook,  flirting  with  policeman  X,  or  Mary  the  nursemaid, 
as  she  listens  to  the  fascinating  guardsman.  He  used 
rather  to  laugh  at  guardsmen,  "  plungers,"  and  other  mil- 
itary men  ;  and  was  until  latter  days  very  contemptuous 
in  his  behavior  towards  Frenchmen.  He  has  a  natural 
antipathy  to  pomp,  and  swagger,  and  fierce  demeanor. 
But  now  that  the  guardsmen  are  gone  to  war,  and  the 
dandies  of  "  The  Rag  "  —  dandies  no  more  —  are  bat- 
tling like  heroes  at  Balaklava  and  Inkermann,  by  the  side 
of  their  heroic  allies,  Mr.  Punch's  laughter  is  changed  to 
hearty  respect  and  enthusiasm.  It  is  not  against  courage 
and  honor  he  wars  :  but  this  great  moralist  —  must  it  be 
owned  ?  —  has  some  popular  British  prejudices,  and  these 
led  him  in  peace-time  to  laugh  at  soldiers  and  French- 
men. If  those  hulking  footmen  who  accompanied  the 
carriages  to  the  opening  of  Parliament  the  other  day, 
would  form  a  plush  brigade,  wear  only  gunpowder  in  their 
hair,  and  strike  with  their  great  canes  on  the  enemy,  Mr. 
Punch  would  leave  off  laughing  at  Jeames,  who,  mean- 
while, remains  among  us,  to  all  outward  appearance  re- 
gardless of  satire,  and  calmly  consuming  his  five  meals 
per  diem.  Against  lawyers,  beadles,  bishops  and  clergy, 
and  authorities,  Mr.  Punch  is  still  rather  bitter.  At  the 
time  of  the  Papal  aggression  he  was  prodigiously  angry ; 
and  one  of  the  chief  misfortunes  which  happened  to  him 
at  that  period  was  that,  through  the  violent  opinions 
which  he  expressed  regarding  the  Roman  Catholic  hie- 
rarchy, he  lost  the  invaluable  services,  the  graceful  pencil, 


LIFE  AND  CHARACTER.  133 

the  harmless  wit,  the  charming  fancy  of  Mr.  Doyle. 
Another  member  of  Mr.  Punch's  cabinet,  the  biographer 
of  Jeames,  the  author  of  *4  The  Snob  Papers,"  resigned  his 
functions  on  account  of  Mr.  Punch's  assaults  upon  the 
present  Emperor  of  the  French  nation,  whose  anger 
Jeames  thought  it  was  unpatriotic  to  arouse.  Mr.  Punch 
parted  with  these  contributors :  he  filled  their  places  with 
others  as  good.  The  boys  at  the  railroad  stations  cried 
Punch  just  as  cheerily,  and  sold  just  as  many  numbers, 
after  these  events  as  before. 

There  is  no  blinking  the  fact  that  in  Mr.  Punch's 
cabinet  John  Leech  is  the  right-hand  man.  Fancy  a 
number  of  Punch  without  Leech's  pictures !  What 
would  you  give  for  it?  The  learned  gentlemen  who 
write  the  work  must  feel  that,  without  him,  it  were  as 
well  left  alone.  Look  at  the  rivals  whom  the  popularity 
of  Punch  has  brought  into  the  field  ;  the  direct  imitators 
of  Mr.  Leech's  manner,  —  the  artists  with  a  manner  of 
their  own,  —  how  inferior  their  pencils  are  to  his  in  hu- 
mor, in  depicting  the  public  manners,  in  arresting,  amus- 
ing the  nation.  The  truth,  the  strength,  the  free  vigor, 
the  kind  humor,  the  John  Bull  pluck  and  spirit  of  that 
hand  are  approached  by  no  competitor.  With  what  dex- 
terity he  draws  a  horse,  a  woman,  a  child !  He  feels 
them  all,  so  to  speak,  like  a  man.  What  plump  young 
beauties  those  are  with  which  Mr.  Punch's  chief  con- 
tributor supplies  the  old  gentleman's  pictorial  harem ! 
What  famous  thews  and  sinews  Mr.  Punch's  horses  have, 
and  how  Briggs,  on  the  back  of  them,  scampers  across 
country  !  You  see  youth,  strength,  enjoyment,  manliness 
in  those  drawings,  and  in  none  more  so,  to  our  thinking, 
than  in  the  hundred  pictures  of  children  which  this  artist 
loves  to  design.  Like  a  brave,  hearty,  good-natured 


134  JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OF 

Briton,  he  becomes  quite  soft  and  tender  with  the  little 
creatures,  pats  gently  their  little  golden  heads,  and 
watches  with  unfailing  pleasure  their  ways,  their  sports, 
their  jokes,  laughter,  caresses.  Enfans  terribles  come 
home  from  Eton  ;  young  Miss  practising  her  first  flirta- 
tion ;  poor  little  ragged  Polly  making  dirt  pies  in  the 
gutter,  or  staggering  under  the  weight  of  Jacky,  her 
nurse-child,  who  is  as  big  as  herself,  —  all  these  little 
ones,  patrician  and  plebeian,  meet  with  kindness  from  this 
kind  heart,  and  are  watched  with  curious  nicety  by  this 
amiable  observer. 

We  remember,  in  one  of  those  ancient  Gillray  port- 
folios, a  print  which  used  to  cause  a  sort  of  terror  in  us 
youthful  spectators,  and  in  which  the  Prince  of  Wales 
(His  Royal  Highness  was  a  Foxite  then)  was  repre- 
sented as  sitting  alone  in  a  magnificent  hall  after  a  volup- 
tuous meal,  and  using  a  great  steel  fork  in  the  guise  of  a 
toothpick.  Fancy  the  first  young  gentleman  living  em- 
ploying such  a  weapon  in  such  a  way !  The  most  elegant 
Prince  of  Europe  engaged  with  a  two-pronged  iron  fork, 
—  the  heir  of  Britannia  with  a  bident!  The  man  of 
genius  who  drew  that  picture  saw  little  of  the  society 
which  he  satirized  and  amused.  Gillray  watched  public 
characters  as  they  walked  by  the  shop  in  St.  James's 
Street,  or  passed  through  the  lobby  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  His.  studio  was  a  garret,  or  little  better ;  his 
place  of  amusement,  a  tavern-parlor  where  his  club  held 
its  nightly  sittings  over  their  pipes  and  sanded  floor. 
You  could  not  have  society  represented  by  men  to  whom 
it  was  not  familiar.  When  Gavarni  came  to  England  a 
few  years  since  —  one  of  the  wittiest  of  men,  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  and  dexterous  of  draughtsmen  —  he  pub- 
lished a  book  of  Les  Anglais,  and  his  Anglais  were  all 


LIFE  AND  CHARACTER.  135 

Frenchmen.  The  eye,  so  keen  and  so  long  practised  to 
observe  Parisian  life,  could  not  perceive  English  charac- 
ter. A  social  painter  must  be  of  the  world  which  he  de- 
picts, and  native  to  the  manners  which  he  portrays. 

Now,  any  one  who  looks  over  Mr.  Leech's  portfolio 
must  see  that  the  social  pictures  which  he  gives  us  are 
authentic.  What  comfortable  little  drawing-rooms  and 
dining-rooms,  what  snug  libraries  we  enter ;  what  fine 
young-gentlemanly  wags  they  are,  those  beautiful  little 
dandies  who  wake  up  gouty  old  grandpapa  to  ring  the 
bell ;  who  decline  aunt's  pudding  and  custards,  saying 
that  they  will  reserve  themselves  for  an  anchovy  toast 
with  the  claret ;  who  talk  together  in  ball-room  doors, 
where  Fred  whispers  Charley,  —  pointing  to  a  dear  little 
partner  seven  years  old,  —  "  My  dear  Charley,  she  has 
very  much  gone  off;  you  should  have  seen  that  girl  last 
season  !  "  Look  well  at  everything  appertaining  to  the 
economy  of  the  famous  Mr.  Briggs  ;  how  snug,  quiet,  ap- 
propriate all  the  appointments  are  !  What  a  comfortable, 
neat,  clean,  middle-class  house  Briggs's  is  (in  the  Bays- 
water  suburb  of  London,  we  should  guess,  from  the 
sketches  of  the  surrounding  scenery)  !  What  a  good 
stable  he  has,  with  a  loose  box  for  those  celebrated  hunt- 
ers which  he  rides  !  How  pleasant,  clean,  and  warm 
his  breakfast-table  looks !  What  a  trim  little  maid 
brings  in  the  top-boots  which  horrify  Mrs.  B. !  What  a 
snug  dressing-room  he  has,  complete  in  all  its  appoint- 
ments, and  in  which  he  appears  trying  on  the  delightful 
hunting-cap  which  Mrs.  Briggs  flings  into  the  fire  !  How 
cosey  all  the  Briggs  party  seem  in  their  dining-room, 
Briggs  reading  a  Treatise  on  Dog-breaking  by  a  lamp  ; 
Mamma  and  Grannie  with  their  respective  needle-works; 
the  children  clustering  round  a  great  book  of  prints, — 


136  JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES  OF 

a  great  book  of  prints  such  as  this  before  us,  which,  at 
this  season,  must  make  thousands  of  children  happy  by 
as  many  firesides  !  The  inner  life  of  all  these  people  is 
represented :  Leech  draws  them  as  naturally  as  Teniers 
depicts  Dutch  boors,  or  Morland  pigs  and  stables.  It  is 
your  house  and  mine  :  we  are  looking  at  everybody's 
family  circle.  Our  boys  coming  from  school  give  them- 
selves such  airs,  the  young  scapegraces  !  our  girls,  going 
to  parties,  are  so  tricked  out  by  fond  mammas,  —  a  social 
history  of  London  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. As  such  future  students — lucky  they  to  have  a 
book  so  pleasant  —  will  regard  these  pages :  even  the 
mutations  of  fashion  they  may  follow  here  if  they  be  so 
inclined.  Mr.  Leech  has  as  fine  an  eye  for  tailory  and 
millinery  as  for  horse-flesh.  How  they  change  those 
cloaks  and  bonnets !  How  we  have  to  pay  milliners' 
bills  from  year  to  year!  Where  are  those  prodigious 
chatelaines  of  1850  which  no  lady  could  be  without? 
Where  those  charming  waistcoats,  those  "stunning" 
waistcoats,  which  our  young  girls  used  to  wear  a  few 
brief  seasons  back,  and  which  cause  'Gus,  in  the  sweet 
little  sketch  of  "  La  Mode,"  to  ask  Ellen  for  her  tailor's 
address !  'Gus  is  a  young  warrior  by  this  time,  very 
likely  facing  the  enemy  at  Inkermann ;  and  pretty  Ellen, 
and  that  love  of  a  sister  of  hers,  are  married  and  happy, 
let  us  hope,  superintending  one  of  those  delightful  nursery 
scenes  which  our  artist  depicts  with  such  tender  humor. 
Fortunate  artist,  indeed !  You  see  he  must  have  been 
bred  at  a  good  public  school ;  that  he  has  ridden  many  a 
good  horse  in  his  day ;  paid,  no  doubt,  out  of  his  own 
purse  for  the  originals  of  some  of  those  lovely  caps  and 
bonnets  ;  and  watched  paternally  the  ways,  smiles,  frolics, 
and  slumbers  of  his  favorite  little  people. 


LIFE  AND  CHARACTER.  137 

As  you  look  at  the  drawings,  secrets  come  out  of  them, 
—  private  jokes,  as  it  were,  imparted  to  you  by  the  au- 
thor for  your  special  delectation.  How  remarkably,  for 
instance,  has  Mr.  Leech  observed  the  hair-dressers  of  the 
present  age  !  Look  at  "  Mr.  Tongs,"  whom  that  hideous 
old  bald  woman,  who  ties  on  her  bonnet  at  the  glass,  in- 
forms that  "she  has  used  the  whole  bottle  of  Balm  of 
California,  but  her  hair  comes  off  yet."  You  can  see  the 
bear's  grease  not  only  on  Tongs's  head  but  on  his  hands, 
which  he  is  clapping  clammily  together.  Remark  him 
who  is  telling  his  client  "  there  is  cholera  in  the  hair  "  ; 
and  that  lucky  rogue  whom  the  young  lady  bids  to  cut 
off  "  a  long  thick  piece  "  —  for  somebody,  doubtless.  All 
these  men  are  different,  and  delightfully  natural  and  ab- 
surd. Why  should  hair-dressing  be  an  absurd  profes- 
sion ? 

The  amateur  will  remark  what  an  excellent  part  hands 
play  in  Mr.  Leech's  pieces :  his  admirable  actors  use 
them  with  perfect  naturalness.  Look  at  Betty,  putting 
the  urn  down  ;  at  cook,  laying  her  hands  on  the  kitchen 
table,  whilst  her  policeman  grumbles  at  the  cold  meat. 
They  are  cook's  and  housemaid's  hands  without  mistake, 
and  not  without  a  certain  beauty  too.  The  bald  old  lady, 
who  is  tying  her  bonnet  at  Tongs's,  has  hands  which  you 
see  are  trembling.  Watch  the  fingers  of  the  two  old  har- 
ridans who  are  talking  scandal :  for  what  long  years  past 
they  have  pointed  out  holes  in  their  neighbors'  dresses 
and  mud  on  their  flounces.  "  Here 's  a  go  !  I  've  lost 
my  diamond  ring."  As  the  dustman  utters  this  pathetic 
cry,  and  looks  at  his  hand,  you  burst  out  laughing.  These 
are  among  the  little  points  of  humor.  One  could  indicate 
hundreds  of  such  as  one  turns  over  the  pleasant  pages. 

There  is  a  little  snob  or  gent,  whom  we  all  of  us  know, 


138  JOHN  LEECH'S  PICTURES. 

who  wears  little  tufts  on  his  little  chin,  outrageous  pins 
and  pantaloons,  smokes  cigars  on  tobacconists'  counters, 
sucks  his  cane  in  the  streets,  struts  about  with  Mrs.  Snob 
and  the  baby  (the  latter  an  immense  woman,  whom  Snob 
nevertheless  bullies),  who  is  a  favorite  abomination  of 
Leech,  and  pursued  by  that  savage  humorist  into  a  thou- 
sand of  his  haunts.  There  he  is,  choosing  waistcoats  at 
the  tailor's,  —  such  waistcoats  !  Yonder  he  is  giving  a 
shilling  to  the  sweeper  who  calls  him  "  capting " ;  now 
he  is  offering  a  paletot  to  a  huge  giant  who  is  going  out 
in  the  rain.  They  don't  know  their  own  pictures,  very 
likely ;  if  they  did,  they  would  have  a  meeting,  and  thirty 
or  forty  of  them  would  be  deputed  to  thrash  Mr.  Leech. 
One  feels  a  pity  for  the  poor  little  bucks.  In  a  minute 
or  two,  when  we  close  this  discourse  and  walk  the  streets, 
we  shall  see  a  dozen  such. 

Ere  we  shut  the  desk  up,  just  one  word  to  point  out  to 
the  unwary  specially  to  note  the  backgrounds  of  land- 
scapes in  Leech's  drawings,  —  homely  drawings  of  moor 
and  wood,  and  sea-shore  and  London  street,  —  the  scenes 
of  his  little  dramas.  They  are  as  excellently  true  to 
nature  as  the  actors  themselves ;  our  respect  for  the 
genius  and  humor  which  invented  both  increases  as  we 
look  and  look  again  at  the  designs.  May  we  have  more 
of  them ;  more  pleasant  Christmas  volumes,  over  which 
we  and  our  children  can  laugh  together.  Can  we  have 
too  much  of  truth,  and  fun,  and  beauty,  and  kindness  ? 


LITTLE    TRAVELS   AND    ROAD-SIDE 
SKETCHES. 

No.  I. 

FROM   RICHMOND   IN    SURREY  TO   BRUSSELS   IN   BELGIUM. 

QUITTED  the  Rose  Cottage  Hotel  at  Rich- 
mond, one  of  the  comfortablest,  quietest,  cheap- 
est, neatest,  little  inns  in  England,  and  a  thou- 
sand times  preferable,  in  my  opinion,  to  the  Star 
and  Garter,  whither,  if  you  go  alone,  a  sneering  waiter, 
with  his  hair  curled,  frightens  you  off  the  premises  ;  and 
where,  if  you  are  bold  enough  to  brave  the  sneering  wait- 
er, you  have  to  pay  ten  shillings  for  a  bottle  of  claret ; 
and  whence,  if  you  look  out  of  the  window,  you  gaze  on 
a  view  which  is  so  rich  that  it  seems  to  knock  you  down 
with  its  splendor,  —  a  view  that  has  its  hair  curled  like 
the  swaggering  waiter  :  I  say,  I  quitted  the  Rose  Cottage 
Hotel  with  deep  regret,  believing  that  I  should  see  nothing 
so  pleasant  as  its  gardens,  and  its  veal-cutlets,  and  its  dear 
little  bowling-green,  elsewhere.  But  the  time  comes 
when  people  must  go  out  of  town,  and  so  I  got  on  the  top 
of  the  omnibus,  and  the  carpet-bag  was  put  inside. 

If  I  were  a  great  prince  and  rode  outside  of  coaches 
(as  I  should  if  I  were  a  great  prince),  I  would,  whether 
I  smoked  or  not,  have  a  case  of  the  best  Havanas  in  my 


140  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

pocket,  —  not  for  my  own  smoking,  but  to  give  them  to 
the  snobs  on  the  coach,  who  smoke  the  vilest  cheroots. 
They  poison  the  air  with  the  odor  of  their  filthy  weeds. 
A  man  at  all  easy  in  his  circumstances  would  spare  him- 
self much  annoyance  by  taking  the  above  simple  precau- 
tion. 

A  gentleman  sitting  behind  me  tapped  me  on  the  back 
and  asked  for  a  light.  He  was  a  footman,  or  rather  val- 
et. He  had  no  livery,  but  the  three  friends  who  accom- 
panied him  were  tall  men  in  pepper-and-salt  undress  jack- 
ets, with  a  duke's  coronet  on  their  buttons. 

After  tapping  me  on  the  back,  and  when  he  had  finished 
his  cheroot,  the  gentleman  produced  another  wind-instru- 
ment, which  he  called  a  "  kinopium,"  —  a  sort  of  trumpet, 
on  which  he  showed  a  great  inclination  to  play.  He  be- 
gan puffing  out  of  the  "  kinopium  "  a  most  abominable 
air,  which  he  said  was  the  "  Duke's  March."  It  was 
played  by  particular  request  of  one  of  the  pepper-and- 
salt  gentry. 

The  noise  was  so  abominable  that  even  the  coachman 
objected  (although  my  friend's  brother  footmen  were  rav- 
ished with  it),  and  said  that  it  was  not  allowed  to  play 
toons  on  his  bus.  "  Very  well,"  said  the  valet,  "  we  're 

only  of  the  Duke  of  B 's  establishment,  THAT  's 

ALL."  The  coachman  could  not  resist  that  appeal  to  his 
fashionable  feelings.  The  valet  was  allowed  to  play  his 
infernal  kinopium,  and  the  poor  fellow  (the  coachman), 
who  had  lived  in  some  private  families,  was  quite  anxious 
to  conciliate  .the  footmen  of  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch's  es- 
tablishment, that 's  all,  and  told  several  stories  of  his  hav- 
ing been  groom  in  Captain  Hoskins's  family,  nephew  of 
Governor  Hoskins,  which  stories  the  footmen  received 
with  great  contempt. 


EOAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  141 

The  footmen  were  like  the  rest  of  the  fashionable 
world  in  .this  respect.  I  felt  for  my  part  that  I  respected 
them.  They  were  in  daily  communication  with  a  duke ! 
They  were  not  the  rose,  but  they  had  lived  beside  it. 
There  is  an  odor  in  the  English  aristocracy  which  intoxi- 
cates plebeians.  I  am  sure  that  any  commoner  in  Eng- 
land, though  he  would  die  rather  than  confess  it,  would 
have  a  respect  for  those  great,  big,  hulking  duke's  foot- 
men. 

The  day  before,  her  Grace,  the  Duchess,  had  passed  us 
alone  in  a  chariot-and-four  with  two  outriders.  What 
better  mark  of  innate  superiority  could  man  want  ?  Here 
was  a  slim  lady  who  required  four  —  six  horses  to  her- 
self, and  four  servants  (kinopium  was,  no  doubt,  one  of 
the  number)  to  guard  her. 

We  were  sixteen  inside  and  out,  and  had  consequent- 
ly an  eighth  of  a  horse  a-piece. 

A  duchess  =  6,  a  commoner  =  £,  that  is  to  say, 
1  duchess  =  48  commoners. 

If  I  were  a  duchess  of  the  present  day,  I  would  say 
to  the  duke,  my  noble  husband,  "  My  dearest  Grace,  I 
think,  when  I  travel  alone  in  my  chariot  from  Hammer- 
smith to  London,  I  will  not  care  for  the  outriders.  In 
these  days,  when  there  is  so  much  poverty  and  so  much 
disaffection  in  the  country,  we  should  not  eclabousser  the 
canaille  with  the  sight  of  our  preposterous  prosperity." 

But  this  is,  very  likely,  only  plebeian  envy,  and,  I  dare 
say,  if  I  were  a  lovely  duchess  of  the  realm,  I  would  ride 
in  a  coach-and-six,  with  a  coronet  on  the  top  of  my  bon- 
net, and  a  robe  of  velvet  and  ermine,  even  in  the  dog- 
days. 

Alas !  these  are  the  dog-days.  Many  dogs  are  abroad, 
—  snarling  dogs,  biting  dogs,  envious  dogs,  mad  dogs ; 


142  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

beware  of  exciting  the  fury  of  such  with  your  flaming 
red  velvet  and  dazzling  ermine.  It  makes  ragged  Laza- 
rus doubly  hungry  to  see  Dives  feasting  in  cloth  of  gold ; 
and  so  if  I  were  a  beauteous  duchess  *  *  *  Silence, 
vain  man,  can  the  queen  herself  make  you  a  duchess  ? 
Be  content,  then,  nor  jibe  at  thy  betters  of  "  the  Duke  of 
B 's  establishment,  —  that  's  all." 

On  board  the  Antwerpen,  off  everywhere. 

We  have  bidden  adieu  to  Billingsgate,  we  have  passed 
the  Thames  Tunnel;  it  is  one  o'clock,  and,  of  course, 
people  are  thinking  of  being  hungry.  What  a  merry 
place  a  steamer  is  on  a  calm  sunny  summer  forenoon, 
and  what  an  appetite  every  one  seems  to  have  !  We  are, 
I  assure  you,  no  less  than  one  hundred  and  seventy  no- 
blemen and  gentlemen  together,  pacing  up  and  down  un- 
der the  awning,  or  lolling  on  the  sofas  in  the  cabin,  and 
hardly  have  we  passed  Greenwich  when  the  feeding  be- 
gins. The  company  was  at  'the  brandy  and  soda-water  in 
an  instant  (there  is  a  sort  of  legend  that  the  beverage  is 
a  preservative  against  sea-sickness),  and  I  admired  the 
penetration  of  gentlemen  who  partook  of  the  drink.  In 
the  first  place,  the  steward  will  put  so  much  brandy  into 
the  tumbler  that  it  is  fit  to  choke  you  ;  and,  secondly,  the 
soda-water,  being  kept  as  near  as  possible  to  the  boiler  of 
the  engine,  is  of  a  fine  wholesome  heat  when  presented 
to  the  hot  and  thirsty  traveller.  Thus  he  is  prevented 
from  catching  any  sudden  cold  which  might  be  dangerous 
to  him. 

The  forepart  of  the  vessel  is  crowded  to  the  full  as 
much  as  the  genteeler  quarter.  There  are  four  carriages, 
each  with  piles  of  imperials  and  aristocratic  gimcracks  of 
travel,  under  the  wheels  of  which  those  personages  have 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  143 

to  clamber  who  have  a  mind  to  look  at  the  bowsprit,  and 
perhaps  to  smoke  a  cigar  at  ease.  The  carriages  over- 
come, you  find  yourself  confronted  by  a  huge  penful  of 
Durham  oxen,  lying  on  hay  and  surrounded  by  a  barri- 
cade of  oars.  Fifteen  of  these  horned  monsters  maintain 
an  incessant  mooing  and  bellowing.  Beyond  the  cows 
come  a  heap  of  cotton-bags,  beyond  the  cotton-bags  more 
carriages,  more  pyramids  of  travelling  trunks,  and  valets 
and  couriers  bustling  and  swearing  round  about  them. 
And  already,  and  in  various  corners  and  niches,  lying  on 
coils  of  rope,  black  tar  cloths,  ragged  cloaks,  or  hay,  you 
see  a  score  of  those  dubious  fore-cabin  passengers,  who 
are  never  shaved,  who  always  look  unhappy,  and  appear 
getting  ready  to  be  sick. 

At  one,  dinner  begins  in  the  after-cabin,  — boiled  salm- 
on, boiled  beef,  boiled  mutton,  boiled  cabbage,  boiled 
potatoes,  and  parboiled  wine  for  any  gentlemen  who  like 
it,  and  two  roast  ducks  between  seventy.  After  this, 
knobs  of  cheese  are  handed  round  on  a  plate,  and  there  is 
a  talk  of  a  tart  somewhere  at  some  end  of  the  table.  All 
this  I  saw  peeping  through  a  sort  of  meat-safe  which  ven- 
tilates the  top  of  the  cabin,  and  very  happy  and  hot  did 
the  people  seem  below. 

"  How  the  deuce  can  people  dine  at  such  an  hour  ?  " 
say  several  genteel  fellows  who  are  watching  the  manoeu- 
vres. "I  can't  touch  a  morsel  before  seven." 

But  somehow  at  half  past  three  o'clock  we  had  dropped 
a  long  way  down  the  river.  The  air  was  delightfully 
fresh,  the  sky  of  a  faultless  cobalt,  the  river  shining  and 
flashing  like  quicksilver,  —  and  at  this  period  steward 
runs  against  me,  bearing  two  great  smoking  dishes  covered 
by  two  great  glistening  hemispheres  of  tin.  "Fellow," 
says  I,  "  what 's  that  ?  " 


144  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

He  lifted  up  the  cover,  it  was  ducks  and  green  peas,  by 
jingo ! 

"  What,  have  n't  they  done  yet,  the  greedy  creatures  ?  " 
I  asked.  "  Have  the  people  been  feeding  for  three 
hours?" 

"  Law  bless  you,  sir,  it 's  the  second  dinner.  Make 
haste,  or  you  won't  get  a  place  " ;  at  which  words  a  gen- 
teel party,  with  whom  I  had  been  conversing,  instantly 
tumbled  down  the  hatchway,  and  I  find  myself  one  of  the 
second  relay  of  seventy  who  are  attacking  the  boiled  salm- 
on, boiled  beef,  boiled  cabbage,  &c.  As  for  the  ducks, 
I  certainly  had  some,  peas,  very  fine  yellow  stiff  peas, 
that  ought  to  have  been  split  before  they  were  boiled; 
but,  with  regard  to  the  ducks,  I  saw  the  animals  gobbled 
up  before  my  eyes  by  an  old  widow  lady  and  her  party 
just  as  I  was  shrieking  to  the  steward  to  bring  a  knife 
and  fork  to  carve  them.  The  fellow  (I  mean  the  widow 
lady's  whiskered  companion)  !  I  saw  him  eat  peas  with 
the  very  knife  with  which  he  had  dissected  the  duck! 

After  dinner  (as  I  need  not  tell  the  keen  observer  of 
human  nature  who  peruses  this)  the  human  mind,  if  the 
body  be  in  a  decent  state,  expands  into  gayety  and  benev- 
olence, and  the  intellect  longs  to  measure  itself  in  friend- 
ly converse  with  the  divers  intelligences  around  it.  We 
ascend  upon  deck,  and  after  eying  each  other  for  a  brief 
space,  and  with  a  friendly  modest  hesitation,  we  begin 
anon  to  converse  about  the  weather,  and  other  profound 
and  delightful  themes  of  English  discourse.  We  confide 
to  each  other  our  respective  opinions  of  the  ladies  round 
about  us.  Look  at  that  charming  creature  in  a  pink  bonnet, 
and  a  dress  of  the  pattern  of  a  Kilmarnock  snuff-box ;  a 
stalwart  Irish  gentleman  in  a  green  coat  and  bushy  red 
whiskers  is  whispering  something  very  agreeable  into  her 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  145 

ear,  as  is  the  wont  of  gentlemen  of  his  nation ;  for  her 
dark  eyes  kindle,  her  red  lips  open,  and  give  an  opportu- 
nity to  a  dozen  beautiful  pearly  teeth  to  display  them- 
selves, and  glance  brightly  in  the  sun,  while  round  the 
teeth  and  the  lips  a  number  of  lovely  dimples  make  their 
appearance,  and  her  whole  countenance  assumes  a  look 
of  perfect  health  and  happiness.  See  her  companion  in 
shot  silk  and  a  dove-colored  parasol ;  in  what  a  graceful 
Watteau-like  attitude  she  reclines.  The  tall  courier,  who 
has  been  bouncing  about  the  deck  in  attendance  upon 
these  ladies  (it  is  his  first  day  of  service,  and  he  is  eager 
to  make  a  favorable  impression  on  them  and  the  lady's- 
maids  too),  has  just  brought  them  from  the  carriage  a 
small  paper  of  sweet  cakes  (nothing  is  prettier  than  to 
see  a  pretty  woman  eating  sweet  biscuits),  and  a  bottle 
that  evidently  contains  Malmsey  madeira.  How  dain- 
tily they  sip  it ;  how  happy  they  seem ;  how  that  lucky 
rogue  of  an  Irishman  prattles  away  !  Yonder  is  a  noble 
group  indeed  ;  an  English  gentleman  and  his  family. 
Children,  mother,  grandmother,  grown-up  daughters,  fa- 
ther, and  domestics,  twenty-two  in  all.  They  have  a 
table  to  themselves  on  the  deck,  and  the  consumption  of 
eatables  among  them  is  really  endless.  The  nurses  have 
been  bustling  to  and  fro,  and  bringing  first,  slices  of  cake  ; 
then  dinner ;  then  tea,  with  huge  family  jugs  of  milk ; 
and  the  little  people  have  been  playing  hide-and-seek 
round  the  deck,  —  coquetting  with  the  other  children,  and 
making  friends  of  every  soul  on  board.  I  love  to  see  the 
kind  eyes  of  women  fondly  watching  them  as  they  gambol 
about ;  a  female  face,  be  it  ever  so  plain,  when  occupied  in 
regarding  children,  becomes  celestial  almost,  and  a  man  can 
hardly  fail  to  be  good  and  happy  while  he  is  looking  on  at 
such  sights.  "  Ah,  sir,"  says  a  great  big  man,  whom  you 
7  j 


146  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

would  not  accuse  of  sentiment,  "  I  have  a  couple  of  those 
little  things  at  home  "  ;  and  he  stops  and  heaves  a  great 
big  sigh  and  swallows  down  a  half  tumbler  of  cold  some- 
thing and  water.  We  know  what  the  honest  fellow 
means  well  enough.  He  is  saying  to  himself,  "  God  bless 
my  girls  and  their  mother !  "  but,  being  a  Briton,  is  too 
manly  to  speak  out  in  a  more  intelligible  way.  Perhaps 
it  is  as  well  for  him  to  be  quiet,  and  not  chatter  and  ges- 
ticulate like  those  Frenchmen  a  few  yards  from  him,  who 
are  chirping  over  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

There  is,  as  you  may  fancy,  a  number  of  such  groups 
on  the  deck,  and  a  pleasant  occupation  it  is  for  a  lonely 
man  to  watch  them  and  build  theories  upon  them,  and  ex- 
amine those  two  personages  seated  cheek  by  jowl.  One 
is  an  English  youth,  travelling  for  the  first  time,  who  has 
been  hard  at  his  guide-book  during  the  whole  journey. 
He  has  a  Manuel  du  Voyageur  in  his  pocket ;  a  very 
pretty,  amusing  little  oblong  work  it  is  too,  and  might  be 
very  useful,  if  the  foreign  people  in  three  languages, 
among  whom  you  travel,  would  but  give  the  answers  set 
down  in  the  book,  or  understand  the  questions  you  put  to 
them  out  of  it.  The  other  honest  gentleman  in  the  fur 
cap,  what  can  his  occupation  be  ?  We  know  him  at  once 
for  what  he  is.  "  Sir,"  says  he,  in  a  fine  German  accent, 
"I  am  a  brofessor  of  languages,  and  will  gif  you  lessons 
in  Danish,  Swedish,  English,  Bortuguese,  Spanish,  and 
Bersian."  Thus  occupied  in  meditations,  the  rapid  hours 
and  the  rapid  steamer  pass  quickly  on.  The  sun  is  sink- 
ing, and,  as  he  drops,  the  ingenious  luminary  sets  the 
Thames  on  fire :  several  worthy  gentlemen,  watch  in 
hand,  are  eagerly  examining  the  phenomena  attending  his 
disappearance,  — rich  clouds  of  purple  and  gold,  that  form 
the  curtains  of  his  bed,  —  little  barks  that  pass  black 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  147 

across  his  disk,  his  disk  every  instant  dropping  nearer  and 
nearer  into  the  water.  "  There  he  goes  !  "  says  one  sa- 
gacious observer.  "  No  he  does  n't,"  cries  another.  Now 
he  is  gone,  and  the  steward  is  already  threading  the  deck, 
asking  the  passengers,  right  and  left,  if  they  will  take  a 
little  supper.  What  a  grand  object  is  a  sunset,  and  what 
a  wonder  is  an  appetite  at  sea  !  Lo  !  the  horned  moon 
shines  pale  over  Margate,  and  the  red  beacon  is  gleaming 
from  distant  Ramsgate  pier. 

***** 
A  great  rush  is  speedily  made  for  the  mattresses  that 
lie  in  the  boat  at  the  ship's  side ;  and,  as  the  night  is  de- 
lightfully calm,  many  fair  ladies  and  worthy  men  deter- 
mine to  couch  on  deck  for  the  night.  The  proceedings 
of  the  former,  especially  if  they  be  young  and  pretty,  the 
philosopher  watches  with  indescribable  emotion  and  in- 
terest. What  a  number  of  pretty  coquetries  do  the  ladies 
perform,  and  into  what  pretty  attitudes  do  they  take  care 
to  fall !  All  the  little  children  have  been  gathered  up  by 
the  nursery-maids,  and  are  taken  down  to  roost  below. 
Balmy  sleep  seals  the  eyes  of  many  tired  wayfarers,  as 
you  see  in  the  case  of  the  Russian  nobleman  asleep  among 
the  portmanteaus  ;  and  Titmarsh,  who  has  been  walking 
the  deck  for  some  time  with  a  great  mattress  on  his 
shoulders,  knowing  full  well,  that  were  he  to  relinquish 
it  for  an  instant,  some  other  person  would  seize  on  it, 
now  stretches  his  bed  upon  the  deck,  wraps  his  cloak 
about  his  knees,  draws  his  white  cotton  nightcap  tight 
over  his  head  and  ears,  and,  as  the  smoke  of  his  cigar 
rises  calmly  upwards  to  the  deep  sky  and  the  cheerful 
twinkling  stars,  he  feels  himself  exquisitely  happy,  and 
thinks  of  thee,  my  Juliana  ! 

***** 


148  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

Why  people,  because  they  are  in  a  steamboat,  should 
get  up  so  deucedly  early  I  cannot  understand.  Gentle- 
men have  been  walking  over  my  legs  ever  since  three 
o'clock  this  morning,  and,  no  doubt,  have  been  indulging 
in  personalities  (which  I  hate)  regarding  my  appearance 
and  manner  of  sleeping,  lying,  snoring.  Let  the  wags 
laugh  on ;  but  a  far  pleasanter  occupation  is  to  sleep  until 
breakfast-time,  or  near  it. 

The  tea  and  ham  and  eggs,  which,  with  a  beef-steak  or 
two,  and  three  or  four  rounds  of  toast,  form  the  compo- 
nent parts  of  the  above-named  elegant  meal,  are  taken  in 
the  river  Scheldt.  Little,  neat,  plump-looking  churches 
and  villages  are  rising  here  and  there  among  tufts  of 
trees  and  pastures  that  are  wonderfully  green.  To  the 
right,  as  the  Guide-book  says,  is  Walcheren ;  and  on  the 
left,  Cadsand,  memorable  for  the  English  expedition, 
of  1809,  when  Lord  Chatham,  Sir  Walter  Manny,  and 
Henry,  Earl  of  Derby,  at  the  head  of  the  English,  gained 
a  great  victory  over  the  Flemish  mercenaries  in  the  pay 
of  Philippe  of  Valois.  The  cloth-yard  shafts  of  the  Eng- 
lish archers  did  great  execution.  Flushing  was  taken, 
and  Lord  Chatham  returned  to  England,  where  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  greatly  in  the  debates  on  the  American 
war,  which  he  called  the  brightest  jewel  of  the  British 
crown.  You  see,  my  love,  that,  though  an  artist  by  pro- 
fession, my  education  has  by  no  means  been  neglected  ;  and 
what,  indeed,  would  be  the  pleasure  of  travel,  unless  these 
charming  historical  recollections  were  brought  to  bear 

upon  it? 

Antwerp. 

As  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of  English  visit  this 
city  (I  have  met  at  least  a  hundred  of  them  in  this  half- 
hour  walking  the  streets,  Guide-book  in  hand),  and  as 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  149 

the  ubiquitous  Murray  has  already  depicted  the  place, 
there  is  no  need  to  enter  into  a  long  description  of  it,  — 
its  neatness,  its  beauty,  and  its  stiff  antique  splendor. 
The  tall,  pale  houses  have  many  of  them  crimped  gables, 
that  look  like  Queen  Elizabeth's  ruffs.  There  are  as 
many  people  in  the  streets  as  in  London  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  The  market-women  wear  bonnets  of  a 
flower-pot  shape,  and  have  shining  brazen  milk-pots, 
which  are  delightful  to  the  eyes  of  a  painter.  Along  the 
quays  of  the  lazy  Scheldt  are  innumerable  good-natured 
groups  of  beer-drinkers  (small-beer  is  the  most  good-na- 
tured drink  in  the  world) ;  along  the  barriers  outside 
of  the  town,  and  by  the  glistening  canals,  are  more  beer- 
shops,  and  more  beer-drinkers.  The  city  is  defended  by 
the  queerest  fat  military.  The  chief  traffic  is  between 
the  hotels  and  the  railroad.  The  hotels  give  wonderful 
good  dinners ;  and  especially  at  the  Grand  Laboureur 
may  be  mentioned  a  peculiar  tart,  which  is  the  best  of  all 
tarts  that  ever  a  man  ate  since  he  was  ten  years  old.  A 
moonlight  walk  is  delightful.  At  ten  o'clock  the  whole 
city  is  quiet ;  and  so  little  changed  does  it  seem  to  be, 
that  you  may  walk  back  three  hundred  years  into  time, 
and  fancy  yourself  a  majestical  Spaniard,  or  an  oppressed 
and  patriotic  Dutchman,  at  your  leisure.  You  enter  the 
inn,  and  the  old  Quentin  Durward  courtyard,  in  which 
the  old  towers  look  down.  There  is  a  sound  of  singing, 
—  singing  at  midnight.  Is  it  Don  Sombrero,  who  is 
singing  an  Andalusian  seguidilla  under  the  window  of 
the  Flemish  burgomaster's  daughter?  Ah,  no!  it  is  a 
fat  Englishman  in  a  zephyr  coat ;  he  is  drinking  cold  gin- 
and-water  in  the  moonlight,  and  warbling  softly:  — 

"  Nix  my  dolly,  pals,  fake  away, 
N — ix  my  dolly,  pals,  fake  a — a — way." 


150  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

I  wish  the  good  people  would  knock  off  the  top  part 
of  Antwerp  Cathedral  spire.  Nothing  can  be  more  gra- 
cious and  elegant  than  the  lines  of  the  first  two  compart- 
ments ;  but  near  the  top  there  bulges  out  a  little  round, 
ugly,  vulgar,  Dutch  monstrosity  (for  which  the  architects 
have,  no  doubt,  a  name)  which  offends  the  eye  cruelly. 
Take  the  Apollo,  and  set  upon  him  a  bob-wig  and  a  little 
cocked  hat ;  imagine  God  save  the  King  ending  with  a 
jig ;  fancy  a  polonaise,  or  procession  of  slim,  stately,  ele- 
gant court  beauties,  headed  by  a  buffoon  dancing  a  horn- 
pipe. Marshal  Gerard  should  have  discharged  a  bomb- 
shell at  that  abomination,  and  have  given  the  noble 
steeple  a  chance  to  be  finished  in  the  grand  style  of  the 
early  fifteenth  century,  in  which  it  was  begun. 

This  style  of  criticism  is  base  and  mean,  and  quite  con- 
trary to  the  orders  of  the  immortal  Goethe,  who  was  only 
for  allowing  the  eye  to  recognize  the  beauties  of  a  great 
work,  but  would  have  its  defects  passed  over.  It  is  an  un- 
happy, luckless  organization  which  will  be  perpetually  fault- 
finding, and  in  the  midst  of  a  grand  concert  of  music  will 
persist  only  in  hearing  that  unfortunate  fiddle  out  of  tune. 

Within  —  except  where  the  rococo  architects  have  in- 
troduced their  ornaments  (here  is  the  fiddle  out  of  tune 
again)  —  the  cathedral  is  noble.  A  rich,  tender  sunshine 
is  streaming  in  through  the  windows,  and  gilding  the 
stately  edifice  with  the  purest  light.  The  admirable 
stained  glass  windows  are  not  too  brilliant  in  their  colors. 
The  organ  is  playing  a  rich,  solemn  music ;  some  two 
hundred  of  people  are  listening  to  the  service ;  and  there 
is  scarce  one  of  the  women  kneeling  on  her  chair,  en- 
veloped in  her  full,  majestic  black  drapery,  but  is  not  a 
fine  study  for  a  painter.  These  large  black  mantles  of 
heavy  silk  brought  over  the  heads  of  the  women,  and 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  151 

covering  their  persons,  fall  into  such  .fine  folds  of  drapery, 
that  they  cannot  help  being  picturesque  and  noble.  See, 
kneeling  by  the  side  of  two  of  those  fine  devout-looking 
figures,  is  a  lady  in  a  little  twiddling  Parisian  hat  and 
leather,  in  a  little  lace  mantelet,  in  a  tight  gown  and 
a  bustle.  She  is  almost  as  monstrous  as  yonder  figure 
of  the  Virgin,  in  a  hoop,  and  with  a  huge  crown  and  a 
ball  and  a  sceptre  ;  and  a  bambino  dressed  in  a  little 
hoop,  and  in  a  little  crown,  round  which  are  clustered 
flowers  and  pots  of  orange-trees,  and  before  which  many 
of  the  faithful  are  at  prayer.  Gentle  clouds  of  incense 
come  wafting  through  the  vast  edifice  ;  and  in  the  lulls 
of  the  music  you  hear  the  faint  chant  of  the  priest,  and 
the  silver  tinkle  of  the  bell. 

Six  Englishmen,  with  the  Commissionaires  and  the 
Murray's  Guide-books  in  their  hands,  are  looking  at  the 
"  Descent  from  the  Cross."  Of  this  picture  the  Guide- 
book gives  you  orders  how  to  judge.  If  it  is  the  end  of 
religious  painting  to  express  the  religious  sentiment,  a 
hundred  of  inferior  pictures  must  rank  before  Rubens. 
Who  was  ever  piously  affected  by  any  picture  of  the 
master  ?  He  can  depict  a  livid  thief  writhing  upon  the 
cross,  sometimes  a  blonde  Magdalen  weeping  below  it ; 
but  it  is  a  Magdalen  a  very  short  time  indeed  after  her 
repentance  ;  her  yellow  brocades  and  flaring  satins  are 
still  those  which  she  wore  when  she  was  of  the  world ; 
her  body  has  not  yet  lost  the  marks  of  the  feasting  and 
voluptuousness  in  which  she  used  to  indulge,  according 
to  the  legend.  Not  one  of  Rubens's  pictures,  among  all 
the  scores  that  decorate  chapels  and  churches  here,  has 
the  least  tendency  to  purify,  to  touch  the  affections,  or  to 
awaken  the  feelings  of  religious  respect  and  wonder. 
The  "  Descent  from  the  Cross "  is  vast,  gloomy,  and 


152  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

awful ;  but  the  awe  inspired  by  it  is,  as  I  take  it,  alto- 
gether material.  He  might  have  painted  a  picture  of 
any  criminal  broken  on  the  wheel,  and  the  sensation  in- 
spired by  it  would  have  been  precisely  similar.  Nor  in 
a  religious  picture  do  you  want  the  savoir-faire  of  the 
master  to  be  always  protruding  itself;  it  detracts  from 
the  feeling  of  reverence,  just  as  the  thumping  of  cushion 
and  the  spouting  of  tawdry  oratory  does  from  a  sermon. 
Meek  religion  disappears,  shouldered  out  of  the  desk  by 
the  pompous,  stalwart,  big-chested,  fresh-colored,  bushy- 
whiskered  pulpiteer.  Rubens's  piety  has  always  struck 
us  as  of  this  sort.  If  he  takes  a  pious  subject,  it  is  to 
show  you  in  what  a  fine  way  he,  Peter  Paul  Rubens,  can 
treat  it.  He  never  seems  to  doubt  but  that  he  is  doing 
it  a  great  honor.  His  "  Descent  from  the  Cross,"  and  its 
accompanying  wings  and  cover,  are  a  set  of  puns  upon 
the  word  Christopher,  of  which  the  taste  is  more  odious 
than  that  of  the  hooped-petticoated  Virgin  yonder,  with 
her  artificial  flowers,  and  her  rings  and  brooches.  The 
people  who  made  an  offering  of  that  hooped-petticoat  did 
their  best,  at  any  rate ;  they  knew  no  better.  There  is 
humility  in  that  simple,  quaint  present ;  trustfulness  and 
kind  intention.  Looking  about  at  other  altars,  you  see 
(much  to  the  horror  of  our  pious)  all  sorts  of  queer  little 
emblems  hanging  up  under  little  pyramids  of  penny  can- 
dles that  are  sputtering  and  flaring  there.  Here  you 
have  a  silver  arm,  or  a  little  gold  toe,  or  a  wax  leg,  or  a 
gilt  eye,  signifying  and  commemorating  cures  that  have 
been  performed  by  the  supposed  intercession  of  the  saint 
over  whose  chapel  they  hang.  Well,  although  they  are 
abominable  superstitions,  yet  these  queer  little  offerings 
seem  to  me  to  be  a  great  deal  more  pious  than  Rubens's 
big  pictures;  just  as  is  the  widow  with  her  poor  little 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  153 

mite  compared  to  the  swelling  Pharisee,  who  flings  his 
purse  of  gold  into  the  plate. 

A  couple  of  days  of  Rubens  and  his  church  pictures 
makes  one  thoroughly  and  entirely  sick  of  him.  His 
very  genius  and  splendor  palls  upon  one,  even  taking  the 
pictures  as  worldly  pictures.  One  grows  weary  of  being 
perpetually  feasted  with  this  rich,  coarse,  steaming  food. 
Considering  them  as  church  pictures,  I  don't  want  to  go 
to  church  to  hear,  however  splendid,  an  organ  play  the 
"  British  Grenadiers." 

The  Antwerpians  have  set  up  a  clumsy  bronze  statue 
of  their  div?inity  in  a  square  of  the  town ;  and  those  who 
have  not  enough  of  Rubens  in  the  churches  may  study 
him,  and,  indeed,  to  much  greater  advantage,  in  a  good, 
well-lighted  museum.  Here  there  is  one  picture,  a  dying 
saint  taking  the  communion,  a  large  piece,  ten  or  eleven 
feet  high,  and  painted  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of 
time,  which  is  extremely  curious,  indeed,  for  the  painter's 
study.  The  picture  is  scarcely  more  than  an  immense 
magnificent  sketch  ;  but  it  tells  the  secret  of  the  artist's 
manner,  which,  in  the  midst  of  its  dash  and  splendor,  is 
curiously  methodical.  Where  the  shadows  are  warm  the 
lights  are  cold,  and  vice  versa;  and  the  picture  has  been 
so  rapidly  painted,  that  the  tints  lie  raw  by  the  side  of 
one  another,  the  artist  not  having  taken  the  trouble  to 
blend  them. 

There  are  two  exquisite  Vandykes  (whatever  Sir 
Joshua  may  say  of  them),  and  in  which  the  very  manage- 
ment of  the  gray  tones  which  the  president  abuses  forms 
the  principal  excellence  and  charm.  Why,  after  all,  are 
we  not  to  have  our  opinion  ?  Sir  Joshua  is  not  the  Pope. 
The  color  of  one  of  those  Vandykes  is  as  fine  as  fine 
7* 


154  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

Paul  Veronese,  and  the  sentiment  beautifully  tender  and 
graceful. 

I  saw,  too,  an  exhibition  of  the  modern  Belgian  artists 
(1843),  the  remembrance  of  whose  pictures  after  a 
month's  absence  has  almost  entirely  vanished.  Wapper's 
hand,  as  I  thought,  seemed  to  have  grown  old  and  feeble, 
Verboeckhoven's  cattle-pieces  are  almost  as  good  as  Paul 
Potter's,  and  Keyser  has  dwindled  down  into  namby- 
pamby  prettiness,  pitiful  to  see  in  the  gallant  young 
painter  who  astonished  the  Louvre  artists  ten  years  ago 
by  a  hand  almost  as  dashing  and  ready  as  that  of  Rubens 
himself.  There  were  besides  many  caricatures  of  the  new 
German  school,  which  are  in  themselves  caricatures  of  the 
masters  before  Raphael. 

An  instance  of  honesty  may  be  mentioned  here  with 
applause.  The  writer  lost  a  pocket-book,  containing  a 
passport  and  a  couple  of  modest  ten-pound  notes.  The 
person  who  found  the  portfolio  ingeniously  put  it  into  the 
box  of  the  post-office,  and  it  was  faithfully  restored  to  the 
owner  ;  but  somehow  the  two  ten-pound  notes  were 
absent.  It  was,  however,  a  great  comfort  to  get  the 
passport,  and  the  pocket-book,  which  must  be  worth  about 
ninepence. 

BRUSSELS. 

It  was  night  when  we  arrived  by  the  railroad  from  Ant- 
werp at  Brussels ;  the  route  is  very  pretty  and  interest- 
ing, and  the  flat  countries  through  which  the  road  passes 
in  the  highest  state  of  peaceful,  smiling  cultivation.  The 
fields  by  the  roadside  are  enclosed  by  hedges  as  in  Eng- 
land, the  harvest  was  in  part  down,  and  an  English 
country  gentleman  who  was  of  our  party  pronounced 
the  crops  to  be  as  fine  as  any  he  had  ever  seen.  Of 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  155 

this  matter  a  Cockney  cannot  judge  accurately,  but  any 
man  can  see  with  what  extraordinary  neatness  and  care 
all  these  little  plots  of  ground  are  tilled,  and  admire  the 
richness  and  brilliancy  of  the  vegetation.  Outside  of  the 
moat  of  Antwerp,  and  at  every  village  by  which  we 
passed,  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  happy  congregations  of 
well-clad  people  that  basked  in  the  evening  sunshine,  and 
soberly  smoked  their  pipes  and  drank  their  Flemish  beer. 
Men  who  love  this  drink  must,  as  I  fancy,  have  some- 
thing essentially  peaceful  in  their  composition,  and  must 
be  more  easily  satisfied  than  folks  on  our  side  of  the 
water.  The  excitement  of  Flemish  beer  is,  indeed,  not 
great.  I  have  tried  both  the  white  beer  and  the  brown ; 
they  are  both  of  the  kind  which  schoolboys  denominate 
"  swipes,"  very  sour  and  thin  to  the  taste,  but  served,  to 
be  sure,  in  quaint  Flemish  jugs  that  do  not  seem  to  have 
changed  their  form  since  the  days  of  Rubens,  and  must 
please  the  lovers  of  antiquarian  knick-knacks.  Numbers 
of  comfortable-looking  women  and  children  sat  beside  the 
head  of  the  family  upon  the  tavern-benches,  and  it  was 
amusing  to  see  one  little  fellow  of  eight  years  old  smok- 
ing, with  much  gravity,  his  father's  cigar.  How  the 
worship  of  the  sacred  plant  of  tobacco  has  spread  through 
all  Europe !  I  am  sure  that  the  persons  who  cry  out 
against  the  use  of  it  are  guilty  of  superstition  and  unrea- 
son, and  that  it  would  be  a  proper  and  easy  task  for 
scientific  persons  to  write  an  encomium  upon  the  weed. 
In  solitude  it  is  the  pleasantest  companion  possible,  and 
in  company  never  de  trop.  To  a  student  it  suggests  all 
sorts  of  agreeable  thoughts,  it  refreshes  the  brain  when 
weary,  and  every  sedentary  cigar-smoker  will  tell  you 
how  much  good  he  has  had  from  it,  and  how  he  has  been 
able  to  return  to  his  labor,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 


156  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

mild  interval  of  the  delightful  leaf  of  Havannah.  Drink- 
ing has  gone  from  among  us  since  smoking  came  in.  It 
is  a  wicked  error  to  say  that  smokers  are  drunkards ; 
drink  they  do,  but  of  gentle  diluents  mostly,  for  fierce 
stimulants  of  wine  or  strong  liquors  are  abhorrent  to  the 
real  lover  of  the  Indian  weed.  Ah  !  my  Juliana,  join 
not  in  the  vulgar  cry  that  is  raised  against  us.  Cigars 
and  cool  drinks  beget  quiet  conversations,  good-humor, 
meditation ;  not  hot  blood  such  as  mounts  into  the  head 
of  drinkers  of  apoplectic  port  or  dangerous  claret.  Are 
we  not  more  moral  and  reasonable  than  our  forefathers  ? 
Indeed,  I  think  so,  somewhat ;  and  many  improvements 
of  social  life  and  converse  must  date  with  the  introduction 
of  the  pipe. 

We  were  a  dozen  tobacco-consumers  in  the  wagon  of 
the  train  that  brought  us  from  Antwerp ;  nor  did  the 
women  of  the  party  (sensible  women  !)  make  a  single 
objection  to  the  fumigation.  But  enough  of  this  ;  only 
let  me  add,  in  conclusion,  that  an  excellent  Israelitish 
gentleman,  Mr.  Hartog  of  Antwerp,  supplies  cigars  for  a 
penny  a-piece,  such  as  are  not  to  be  procured  in  London 
for  four  times  the  sum. 

Through  smiling  cornfields,  then,  and  by  little  woods, 
from  which  rose  here  and  there  the  quaint  peaked  towers 
of  some  old-fashioned  chateaux,  our  train  went  smoking 
along  at  thirty  miles  an  hour.  We  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Mechlin  steeple,  at  first  dark  against  the  sunset,  and 
afterwards  bright  as  we  came  to  the  other  side  of  it,  and 
admired  long  glistening  canals  or  moats  that  surrounded 
the  queer  old  town,  and  were  lighted  up  in  that  wonder- 
ful way  which  the  sun  only  understands,  and  not  even 
Mr.  Turner,  with  all  his  vermilion  and  gamboge,  can  put 
down  on  canvas.  The  verdure  was  everywhere  aston- 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  157 

ishing,  and  we  fancied  we  saw  many  golden  Cuyps  as  we 
passed  by  these  quiet  pastures. 

Steam-engines  and  their  accompaniments,  blazing  forges, 
gaunt  manufactories,  with  numberless  windows  and  long 
black  chimneys,  of  course  take  away  from  the  romance  of 
the  place  ;  but,  as  we  whirled  into  Brussels,  even  these 
engines  had  a  fine  appearance.  Three  or  four  of  the 
snorting,  galloping  monsters  had  just  finished  their  jour- 
ney, and  there  was  a  quantity  of  flaming  ashes  lying 
under  the  brazen  bellies  of  each  that  looked  properly 
lurid  and  demoniacal.  The  men  at  the  station  came  out 
with  flaming  torches,  —  awful-looking  fellows,  indeed  ! 
Presently  the  different  baggage  was  handed  out,  and,  in 
the  very  worst  vehicle  J  ever  entered,  and  at  the  very 
slowest  pace,  we  were  borne  to  the  Hotel  de  Suede,  from 
which  house  of  entertainment  this  letter  is  written. 

We  strolled  into  the  town,  but,  though  the  night  was 
excessively  fine  and  it  was  not  yet  eleven  o'clock,  the 
streets  of  the  little  capital  were  deserted,  and  the  hand- 
some blazing  cafes  round  about  the  theatres  contained  no 
inmates.  Ah,  what  a  pretty  sight  is  the  Parisian  Boule- 
vard on  a  night  like  this !  how  many  pleasant  hours  has 
one  passed  in  watching  the  lights,  and  the  hum,  and  the 
stir,  and  the  laughter  of  those  happy,  idle  people !  There 
was  none  of  this  gayety  here  ;  nor  was  there  a  person  to 
be  found,  except  a  skulking  commissioner  or  two  (whose 
real  name  in  French  is  that  of  a  fish  that  is  eaten  with 
fennel-sauce),  and  who  offered  to  conduct  us  to  certain 
curiosities  in  the  town.  What  must  we  English  not  have 
done,  that  in  every  town  in  Europe  we  are  to  be  fixed 
upon  by  scoundrels  of  this  sort ;  and  what  a  pretty  re- 
flection it  is  on  our  country  that  such  rascals  find  the 
means  of  living  on  us ! 


158  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

Early  the  next  morning  we  walked  through  a  number 
of  streets  in  the  place,  and  saw  certain  sights.  The  Park 
is  very  pretty,  and  all  the  buildings  round  about  it  have 
an  air  of  neatness, —  almost  of  stateliness.  The  houses 
are  tall,  the  streets  spacious,  and  the  roads  extremely 
clean.  In  the  Park  is  a  little  theatre,  a  cafe  somewhat 
ruinous,  a  little  palace  for  the  king  of  this  little  kingdom, 
some  smart  public  buildings  (with  S.  P.  Q.  B.  emblazoned 
on  them,  at  which  pompous  inscription  one  cannot  help 
laughing),  and  other  rows  of  houses  somewhat  resem- 
bling a  little  Rue  de  Rivoli.  Whether  from  my  own 
natural  greatness  and  magnanimity,  or  from  that  hand- 
some share  of  national  conceit  that  every  Englishman 
possesses,  my  impressions  of  this  city  are  certainly  any- 
thing but  respectful.  It  has  an  absurd  kind  of  Lilliput 
look  with  it.  There  are  soldiers,  just  as  in  Paris,  better 
dressed,  and  doing  a  vast  deal  of  drumming  and  bustle ; 
and  yet,  somehow,  far  from  being  frightened  at  them,  I 
feel  inclined  to  laugh  in  their  faces.  There  are  little 
ministers,  who  work  at  their  little  bureaux,  and  to  read 
the  journals,  how  fierce  they  are !  A  great  thundering 
Times  could  hardly  talk  more  big.  One  reads  about  the 
rascally  ministers,  the  miserable  opposition,  the  designs 
of  tyrants,  the  eyes  of  Europe,  &c.,  just  as  one  would  in 
real  journals.  The  Moniteur  of  Ghent  belabors  the  Inde- 
pendent of  Brussels  ;  the  Independent  falls  foul  of  the 
Lynx  ;  and  really  it  is  difficult  not  to  suppose  sometimes 
that  these  working  people  are  in  earnest.  And  yet  how 
happy  were  they  sua  si  bona  norint  !  Think  what  a 
comfort  it  would  be  to  belong  to  a  little  state  like  this ; 
not  to  abuse  their  privilege,  but  philosophically  to  use  it. 
If  I  were  a  Belgian,  I  would  not  care  one  single  fig  about 
politics.  I  would  not  read  thundering  leading  articles. 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  159 

I  would  not  have  an  opinion.  What 's  the  use  of  an  opin- 
ion here  ?  Happy  fellows  !  do  not  the  French,  the  Eng- 
lish, and  the  Prussians,  spare  them  the  trouble  of  think- 
ing, and  make  all  their  opinions  for  them  ?  Think  of 
living  in  a  country  free,  easy,  respectable,  wealthy,  and 
with  the  nuisance  of  talking  politics  removed  from  out  of 
it.  All  this  might  the  Belgians  have,  and  a  part  do  they 
enjoy,  but  not  the  best  part ;  no,  these  people  will  be 
brawling  and  by  the  ears,  and  parties  run  as  high  here  as 
at  Stoke  Pogis  or  little  Pedlington. 

These  sentiments  were  elicited  by  the  reading  of  a 
paper  at  the  cafe  in  the  Park,  where  we  sat  under  the 
trees  for  a  while  and  sipped  our  cool  lemonade.  Num- 
bers of  statues  decorate  the  place,  the  very  worst  I  ever 
saw.  These  Cupids  must  have  been  erected  in  the  time 
of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  as  I  judge  from  the  immense  pos- 
terior developments.  Indeed  the  arts  of  the  country  are 
very  low.  The  statues  here,  and  the  lions  before  the 
Prince  of  Orange's  palace,  would  disgrace  almost  the 
figure-head  of  a  ship. 

Of  course  we  paid  our  visit  to  this  little  lion  of  Brus- 
sels (the  prince's  palace,  I  mean).  The  architecture  of 
the  building  is  admirably  simple  and  firm ;  and  you  re- 
mark about  it,  and  all  other  works  here,  a  high  finish  in 
doors,  wood-works,  paintings,  &c.,  that  one  does  not  see  in 
France,  where  the  buildings  are  often  rather  sketched 
than  completed,  and  the  artist  seems  to  neglect  the  limbs, 
as  it  were,  and  extremities  of  his  figures. 

The  finish  of  this  little  place  is  exquisite.  We  went 
through  some  dozen  of  state  rooms,  paddling  along  over 
the  slippery  floors  of  inlaid  woods  in  great  slippers,  with- 
out which  we  must  have  come  to  the  ground.  How  did 
his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Orange  manage  when 


160  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

he  lived  here,  and  her  Imperial  Highness  the  Princess, 
and  their  excellencies  the  chamberlains,  and  the  footmen? 
They  must  have  been  on  their  tails  many  times  a  day, 
that 's  certain,  and  must  have  cut  queer  figures. 

The  ball-room  is  beautiful,  —  all  marble,  and  yet  with 
a  comfortable,  cheerful  look.  The  other  apartments  are 
not  less  agreeable,  and  the  people  looked  with  intense  satis- 
faction at  some  great  lapis-lazuli  tables,  which  the  guide  in- 
formed us  were  worth  four  millions,  more  or  less  ;  adding, 
with  a  very  knowing  look,  that  they  were  un  peu  plus 
cher  que  Tor.  This  speech  has  a  tremendous  effect  on  vis- 
itors, and  when  we  met  some  of  our  steamboat  compan- 
ions in  the  Park  or  elsewhere,  —  in  so  small  a  place  as 
this  one  falls  in  with  them  a  dozen  times  a  day,  —  "  Have 
you  seen  the  tables  ? "  was  the  general  question.  Pro- 
digious tables  are  they,  indeed  !  Fancy  a  table,  my  dear, 
—  a  table  four  feet  wide,  —  a  table  with  legs.  Ye  Heav- 
ens !  the  mind  can  hardly  picture  to  itself  anything  so 
beautiful  and  so  tremendous  ! 

There  are  some  good  pictures  in  the  palace,  too,  but 
not  so  extraordinarily  good  as  the  guide-books  and  the 
guide  would  have  us  to  think.  The  latter,  like  most  men 
of  his  class,  is  an  ignoramus,  who  showed  us  an  Andrea 
del  Sarto  (copy  or  original),  and  called  it  a  Correggio, 
and  made  other  blunders  of  a  like  nature.  As  is  the 
case  in  England,  you  are  hurried  through  the  rooms 
without  being  allowed  time  to  look  at  the  pictures,  and, 
consequently,  to  pronounce  a  satisfactory  judgment  on 
them. 

In  the  museum  more  time  was  granted  me,  and  I  spent 
some  hours  with  pleasure  there.  It  is  an  absurd  little 
gallery,  absurdly  imitating  the  Louvre,  with  just  such 
compartments  and  pillars  as  you  see  in  the  noble  Paris 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  161 

gallery ;  only  here  the  pillars  and  capitals  are  stucco  and 
white  in  place  of  marble  and  gold,  and  plaster  of  Paris 
busts  of  great  Belgians  are  placed  between  the  pillars. 
An  artist  of  the  country  has  made  a  portrait  containing 
them,  and  you  will  be  ashamed  of  your  ignorance  when 
you  hear  many  of  their  names.  Old  Tilly  of  Magde- 
burg figures  in  one  corner ;  Rubens,  the  endless  Rubens, 
stands  in  the  midst.  What  a  noble  countenance  it  is, 
and  what  a  manly,  swaggering  consciousness  of  power  ! 

The  picture  to  see  here  is  a  portrait,  by  the  great  Peter 
Paul,  of  one  of  the  governesses  of  the  Netherlands.  It 
is  just  the  finest  portrait  that  ever  was  seen.  Only  a 
half-length,  but  such  a  majesty,  such  a  force,  such  a 
splendor,  such  a  simplicity  about  it !  The  woman  is  in  a 
stiff,  black  dress,  with  a  ruff,  and  a  few  pearls ;  a  yellow 
curtain  is  behind  her,  —  the  simplest  arrangement  that 
can  be  conceived.  But  this  great  man  knew  how  to  rise 
to  his  occasion  ;  and  no  better  proof  can  be  shown  of 
what  a  fine  gentleman  he  was  than  this  his  homage  to  the 
vice-queen.  A  common  bungler  would  have  painted  her 
in  her  best  clothes,  with  crown  and  sceptre,  just  as  our 
queen  has  been  painted  by  —  but  comparisons  are 
odious.  Here  stands  this  majestic  woman  in  her  every- 
day working-dress  of  black  satin,  looking  your  hat  off,  as 
it  were.  Another  portrait  of  the  same  personage  hangs 
elsewhere  in  the  gallery,  and  it  is  curious  to  observe  the 
difference  between  the  two,  and  see  how  a  man  of  genius 
paints  a  portrait,  and  how  a  common  limner  executes  it. 

Many  more  pictures  are  there  here  by  Rubens,  or 
rather  from  Rubens's  manufactory,  —  odious  and  vulgar 
most  of  them  are,  —  fat  Magdalens,  coarse  Saints,  vulgar 
Virgins,  with  the  scene-painter's  tricks  far  too  evident  up- 
on the  canvas.  By  the  side  of  one  of  the  most  aston- 

K 


162  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

ishing  color-pieces  in  the  world,  the  "  Worshipping  of  the 
Magi,"  is  a  famous  picture  of  Paul  Veronese,  that  cannot 
be  too  much  admired.  As  Rubens  sought  in  the  first 
picture  to  dazzle  and  astonish  by  gorgeous  variety,  Paul 
in  his  seems  to  wish  to  get  his  effect  by  simplicity,  and 
has  produced  the  most  noble  harmony  that  can  be  con- 
ceived. Many  more  works  are  there  that  merit  notice,  — 
a  singularly  clever,  brilliant,  and  odious  Jordeans,  for  ex- 
ample ;  some  curious  costume-pieces  ;  one  or  two  works 
by  the  Belgian  Raphael,  who  was  a  very  Belgian  Ra- 
phael, indeed ;  and  a  long  gallery  of  pictures  of  the  very 
oldest  school,  that,  doubtless,  afford  much  pleasure  to  the 
amateurs  of  ancient  art.  I  confess  that  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  in  very  little  that  existed  before  the  time  of 
Raphael.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  Prince  of  Orange's 
picture  by  Perrugino,  very  pretty,  indeed,  up  to  a  certain 
point,  but  all  the  heads  are  repeated,  all  the  drawing  is 
bad  and  affected ;  and  this  very  badness  and  affectation  is 
what  the  so-called  Catholic  school  is  always  anxious  to 
imitate.  Nothing  can  be  more  juvenile  or  paltry  than  the 
works  of  the  native  Belgians  here  exhibited.  Tin  crowns 
are  suspended  over  many  of  them,  showing  that  the  pic- 
tures are  prize  compositions,  and  pretty  things,  indeed, 
they  are  !  Have  you  ever  read  an  Oxford  prize-poem  ? 
Well,  these  pictures  are  worse  even  than  the  Oxford 
poems,  —  an  awful  assertion  to  make. 

In  the  matter  of  eating,  dear  sir,  which  is  the  next 
subject  of  the  fine  arts,  —  a  subject  that,  after  many 
hours'  walking,  attracts  a  gentleman  very  much,  let  me 
attempt  to  recall  the  transactions  of  this  very  day  at  the 
taUe-d'hote.  1.  green  pea-soup  ;  2.  boiled  salmon  ;  3. 
muscles  ;  4.  crimped  skate  ;  5.  roast  meat ;  6.  patties  ; 
7.  melon ;  8.  carp,  stewed  with  mushrooms  and  onions  ; 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  163 

9.  roast  turkey  ;  10.  cauliflower  and  butter  ;  11.  fillets  of 
venison  piques,  with  assafoetida  sauce ;  12.  stewed  calf's 
ear ;  13.  roast  veal ;  14.  roast  lamb  ;  15.  stewed  cherries  ; 
16.  rice  pudding  ;  17.  Gruyere  cheese,  and  about  twenty- 
four  cakes  of  different  kinds.  Except  5,  13,  and  14,  I 
give  you  my  word  I  ate  of  all  written  down  here,  with 
three  rolls  of  bread  and  a  score  of  potatoes.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  it  ?  How  is  the  stomach  of  man  brought  to 
desire  and  to  receive  all  this  quantity  ?  Do  not  gastro- 
nomists complain  of  heaviness  in  London  after  eating  a 
couple  of  mutton-chops  ?  Do  not  respectable  gentlemen 
fall  asleep  in  their  arm-chairs  ?  Are  they  fit  for  mental 
labor?  Far  from  it.  But  look  at  the  difference  here; 
after  dinner  here  one  is  as  light  as  a  gossamer.  One 
walks  with  pleasure,  reads  with  pleasure,  writes  with 
pleasure,  —  nay,  there  is  the  supper-bell  going  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  plenty  of  eaters,  too.  Let  lord-mayors  and 
aldermen  look  to  it,  this  fact  of  the  extraordinary  increase 
of  appetite  in  Belgium,  and,  instead  of  steaming  to  Black- 
wall,  come  a  little  farther  to  Antwerp. 

Of  ancient  architectures  in  the  place,  there  is  a  fine  old 
Port  de  Halle,  which  has  a  tall,  gloomy,  bastile  look ;  a 
most  magnificent  town-hall,  that  has  been  sketched  a 
thousand  of  times,  and,  opposite  it,  a  building  that  I 
think  would  be  the  very  model  for  a  Conservative  club- 
house in  London.  O  how  charming  it  would  be  to  be 
a  great  painter,  and  give  the  character  of  the  building, 
and  the  numberless  groups  round  about  it.  The  booths 
lighted  up  by  the  sun,  the  market-women  in  their  gowns 
of  brilliant  hue,  each  group  having  a  character,  and 
telling  its  little  story,  the  troops  of  men  lolling  in  all 
sorts  of  admirable  attitudes  of  ease  round  the  great  lamp. 


164  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

Half  a  dozen  light  blue  dragoons  are  lounging  about,  and 
peeping  over  the  artist  as  the  drawing  is  made,  and  the 
sky  is  more  bright  and  blue  than  one  sees  it  in  an  hun- 
dred years  in  London. 

The  priests  of  the  country  are  a  remarkably  well-fed 
and  respectable  race,  without  that  scowling,  hang-dog 
look  which  one  has  remarked  among  reverend  gentlemen 
in  the  neighboring  country  of  France.  Their  reverences 
wear  buckles  to  their  shoes,  light-blue  neckcloths,  and 
huge  three-cornered  hats  in  good  condition.  To-day, 
strolling  by  the  cathedral,  I  heard  the  tinkling  of  a  bell 
in  the  street,  and  beheld  certain  persons,  male  and  fe- 
male, suddenly  plump  down  on  their  knees  before  a  little 
procession  that  was  passing.  Two  men  in  black  held  a 
tawdry  red  canopy,  a  priest  walked  beneath  it  holding  the 
sacrament  covered  with  a  cloth,  and  before  him  marched 
a  couple  of  little  altar-boys  in  short  white  surplices,  such 
as  you  see  in  Rubens,  and  holding  lacquered  lamps.  A 
small  train  of  street-boys  followed  the  procession,  cap  in 
hand,  and  the  clergyman  finally  entered  a  hospital  for  old 
women,  near  the  church,  the  canopy  and  the  lamp-bearers 
remaining  without. 

It  was  a  touching  scene,  and,  as  I  stayed  to  watch  it, 
I  could  not  but  think  of  the  poor  old  soul  who  was  dying 
within,  listening  to  the  last  words  of  prayer,  led  by  the 
hand  of  the  priest  to  the  brink  of  the  black,  fathomless 
grave.  How  bright  the  sun  was  shining  without  all  the 
time,  and  how  happy  and  careless  everything  around  us 
looked ! 

The  Duke  d'Arenberg  has  a  picture-gallery  worthy  of 
his  princely  house.  It  does  not  contain  great  pieces,  but 
titbits  of  pictures,  such  as  suit  an  aristocratic  epicure. 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  165 

For  such  persons  a  great  huge  canvas  is  too  much,  it  is 
like  sitting  down  alone  to  a  roasted  ox ;  and  they  do 
wisely,  I  think,  to  patronize  small,  high-flavored,  delicate 
morceaux,  such  as  the  duke  has  here. 

Among  them  may  be  mentioned,  with  special  praise, 
a  magnificent  small  Rembrandt,  a  Paul  Potter  of  exceed- 
ing minuteness  and  beauty,  an  Ostade,  which  reminds  one 
of  Wilkie's  early  performances,  and  a  Dusart  quite  as 
good  as  Ostade.  There  is  a  Bergham,  much  more  unaf- 
fected than  that  artist's  works  generally  are ;  and,  what 
is  more  precious  in  the  eyes  of  many  ladies  as  an  object 
of  art,  there  is,  in  one  of  the  grand  saloons,  some  needle- 
work done  by  the  duke's  own  grandmother,  which  is 
looked  at  with  awe  by  those  admitted  to  see  the  palace. 

The  chief  curiosity,  if  not  the  chief  ornament  of  a  very 
elegant  library,  filled  with  vases  and  bronzes,  is  a  marble 
head,  supposed  to  be  the  original  head  of  the  Laocoon. 
It  is,  unquestionably,  a  finer  head  than  that  which  at 
present  figures  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  famous  statue. 
The  expression  of  woe  is  more  manly  and  intense ;  in  the 
group,  as  we  know  it,  the  head  of  the  principal  figure  has 
always  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  grimace  of  grief,  as  are  the 
two  accompanying  young  gentlemen,  with  their  pretty  at- 
titudes, and  their  little,  silly,  open-mouthed  despondency. 
It  has  always  had  upon  me  the  effect  of  a  trick,  that  statue, 
and  not  of  a  piece  of  true  art.  It  would  look  well  in 
the  vista  of  a  garden ;  it  is  not  august  enough  for  a  tem- 
ple, with  all  its  jerks,  and  twirls,  and  polite  convulsions. 
But  who  knows  what  susceptibilities  such  a  confession 
may  offend?  Let  us  say  no  more  about  the  Laocoon, 
nor  its  head,  nor  its  tail.  The  duke  was  offered  its  weight 
in  gold,  they  say,  for  this  head,  and  refused.  It  would 
be  a  shame  to  speak  ill  of  such  a  treasure,  but  I  have  my 
opinion  of  the  man  who  made  the  offer. 


166  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

In  the  matter  of  sculpture  almost  all  the  Brussels 
churches  are  decorated  with  the  most  laborious  wooden 
pulpits,  which  may  be  worth  their  weight  in  gold,  too,  for 
what  I  know,  including  his  reverence  preaching  inside. 
At  St.  Gudule  the  preacher  mounts  into  no  less  a  place 
than  the  garden  of  Eden,  being  supported  by  Adam  and 
Eve,  by  Sin  and  Death,  and  numberless  other  animals ; 
he  walks  up  to  his  desk  by  a  rustic  railing  of  flowers, 
fruits,  and  vegetables,  with  wooden  peacocks,  parroquets, 
monkeys  biting  apples,  and  many  more  of  the  birds  and 
beasts  of  the  field.  In  another  church  the  clergyman 
speaks  from  out  a  hermitage;  in  a  third  from  a  carved 
palm-tree,  which  supports  a  set  of  oak  clouds  that  form 
the  canopy  of  the  pulpit,  and  are,  indeed,  not  much  heav- 
ier in  appearance  than  so  many  huge  sponges.  A  priest, 
however  tall  or  stout,  must  be  lost  in  the  midst  of  all 
these  queer  gimcracks;  in  order  to  be  consistent,  they 
ought  to  dress  him  up,  too,  in  some  odd,  fantastical  suit. 
I  can  fancy  the  cure  of  Meudon  preaching  out  of  such  a 
place,  or  the  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  or  that  famous  clergy- 
man of  the  time  of  the  League,  who  brought  all  Paris 
to  laugh  and  listen  to  him. 

But  let  us  not  be  too  supercilious  and  ready  to  sneer. 
It  is  only  bad  taste.  It  may  have  been  very  true  devo- 
tion which  erected  these  strange  edifices. 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  167 

No.  II. 

GHENT.  —  BRUGE'S. 

GHENT  (1840). 

THE  Beguine  College  or  Village  is  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  sights  that  all  Europe  can  show.  On  the 
confines  of  the  town  of  Ghent  you  come  upon  an  old- 
fashioned  brick  gate,  that  seems  as  if  it  were  one  of  the 
city  barriers ;  but,  on  passing  it,  one  of  the  prettiest 
sights  possible  meets  the  eye  :  at  the  porters  lodge  you 
see  an  old  lady,  in  black  and  a  white  hood,  occupied  over 
her  book  ;  before  you  is  a  red  church  with  a  tall  roof  and 
fantastical  Dutch  pinnacles,  and  all  around  it  rows  upon 
rows  of  small  houses,  the  queerest,  neatest,  nicest  that 
ever  were  seen  (a  doll's  house  is  hardly  smaller  or  pret- 
tier) ;  right  and  left,  on  each  side  of  little  alleys,  these 
little  mansions  rise  ;  they  have  a  courtlet  before  them,  in 
which  some  green  plants  or  hollyhocks  are  growing ;  and 
to  each  house  is  a  gate,  that  has  mostly  a  picture  or 
queer-carved  ornament  upon  or  about  it,  and  bears  the 
name,  not  of  the  Beguine  who  inhabits  it,  but  of  the  saint 
to  whom  she  may  have  devoted  it,  —  the  house  of  St. 
Stephen,  the  house  of  St.  Donatus,  the  English  or  Angel 
Convent,  and  so  on.  Old  ladies  in  black  are  pacing  in 
the  quiet  alleys  here  and  there,  and  drop  the  stranger  a 
courtesy  as  he  passes  them  and  takes  off  his  hat.  Never 
were  such  patterns  of  neatness  seen  as  these  old  ladies 
and  their  houses.  I  peeped  into  one  or  two  of  the 
chambers,  of  which  the  windows  were  open  to  the  pleas- 
ant evening  sun,  and  saw  beds  scrupulously  plain,  a 
quaint  old  chair  or  two,  and  little  pictures  of  favorite 
saints  decorating  the  spotless  white  walls.  The  old 


168  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

ladies  kept  up  a  quick,  cheerful  clatter,  as  they  paused 
to  gossip  at  the  gates  of  their  little  domiciles  ;  and  with  a 
great  deal  of  artifice,  and  lurking  behind  walls,  and  look- 
ing at  the  church  as  if  I  intended  to  design  that,  I  man- 
aged to  get  a  sketch  of  a  couple  of  them. 

But  what  white  paper  can  render  the  whiteness  of 
their  linen  ?  what  black  ink  can  do  justice  to  the  lustre 
of  their  gowns  and  shoes  ?  Both  of  the  ladies  had  a  neat 
ankle  and  a  tight  stocking ;  and  I  fancy  that  Heaven  is 
quite  as  well  served  in  this  costume  as  in  the  dress  of  a 
scowling,  stockingless  friar,  whom  I  had  seen  passing  just 
before.  The  look  and  dress  of  the  man  made  me  shud- 
der. His  great  red  feet  were  bound  up  in  a  shoe  open  at 
the  toes,  a  kind  of  compromise  for  a  sandal.  I  had  just 
seen  him  and  his  brethren  at  the  Dominican  Church, 
where  a  mass  of  music  was  sung,  and  orange-trees,  flags, 
and  banners,  decked  the  aisle  of  the  church. 

One  begins  to  grow  sick  of  these  churches,  and  the 
hideous  exhibitions  of  bodily  agonies  that  are  depicted  on 
the  sides  of  all  the  chapels.  Into  one  wherein  we  went 
this  morning  was  what  they  call  a  Calvary,  a  horrible, 
ghastly  image  of  a  Christ  in  a  tomb,  the  figure  of  the 
natural  size,  and  of  the  livid  color  of  death ;  gaping  red 
wounds  on  the  body  and  round  the  brows :  the  whole 
piece  enough  to  turn  one  sick,  and  fit  only  to  brutalize 
the  beholder  of  it.  The  Virgin  is  commonly  represented 
with  a  dozen  swords  stuck  in  her  heart ;  bleeding  throats 
of  headless  John-Baptists  are  perpetually  thrust  before 
your  eyes.  At  the  cathedral-gate  was  a  papier-mache 
church-ornament  shop,  —  most  of  the  carvings  and  re- 
liefs of  the  same  dismal  character ;  one,  for  instance, 
represented  a  heart  with  a  great  gash  in  it,  and  a  double 
row  of  large  blood-drops  dribbling  from  it ;  nails  and  a 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  169 

knife  were  thrust  into  the  heart ;  round  the  whole  was  a 
crown  of  thorns.  Such  things  are  dreadful  to  think  of. 
The  same  gloomy  spirit  which  made  a  religion  of  them, 
and  worked  upon  the  people  by  the  grossest  of  all  means, 
terror,  distracted  the  natural  feelings  of  man  to  maintain 
its  power,  —  shut  gentle  women  into  lonely,  pitiless  con- 
vents, —  frightened  poor  peasants  with  tales  of  torment,  — 
taught  that  the  end  and  labor  of  life  was  silence,  wretch- 
edness, and  the  scourge,  —  murdered  those  by  fagot  and 
prison  who  thought  otherwise.  How  has  the  blind  and 
furious  bigotry  of  man  perverted  that  which  God  gave  us 
as  our  greatest  boon,  and  bid  us  hate  where  God  bade 
us  love !  Thank  Heaven  that  monk  has  gone  out  of 
sight !  It  is  pleasant  to  look  at  the  smiling,  cheerful  old 
Beguine,  and  think  no  more  of  yonder  livid  face. 

One  of  the  many  convents  in  this  little  religious  city 
seems  to  be  the  specimen-house  which  is  shown  to 
strangers,  for  all  the  guides  conduct  you  thither,  and  I 
saw  in  a  book  kept  for  the  purpose  the  names  of  in- 
numerable Smiths  and  Joneses  registered. 

A  very  kind,  sweet-voiced,  smiling  nun  (I  wonder,  do 
they  always  choose  the  most  agreeable  and  best-humored 
sister  of  the  house  to  show  it  to  strangers  ?)  came  trip- 
ping down  the  steps  and  across  the  flags  of  the  little  gar- 
den court,  and  welcomed  us  with  much  courtesy  into  the 
neat  little  old-fashioned,  red-bricked,  gable-ended,  shin- 
ing-windowed Convent  of  the  Angels.  First,  she  showed 
us  a  whitewashed  parlor,  decorated  with  a  grim  picture 
or  two  and  some  crucifixes  and  other  religious  emblems, 
where,  upon  stiff  old  chairs,  the  sisters  sit  and  work. 
Three  or  four  of  them  were  still  there,  pattering  over 
their  laces  and  bobbins ;  but  the  chief  part  of  the  sister- 
hood were  engaged  in  an  apartment  hard  by,  from  which 
8 


170  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

issued  a  certain  odor  which  I  must  say  resembled  onions, 
and  which  was  in  fact  the  kitchen  of  the  establishment. 

Every  Beguine  cooks  her  own  little  dinner  in  her  own 
little  pipkin ;  and  there  was  half  a  score  of  them,  sure 
enough,  busy  over  their  pots  and  crockery,  cooking  a  re- 
past which,  when  ready,  was  carried  off  to  a  neighbor- 
ing room,  the  refectory,  where,  at  a  ledge-table  which 
is  drawn  out  from  under  her  own  particular  cupboard, 
each  nun  sits  down  and  eats  her  meal  in  silence.  More 
religious  emblems  ornamented  the  carved  cupboard-doors, 
and  within,  everything  was  as  neat  as  neat  could  be: 
shining  pewter  ewers  and  glasses,  snug  baskets  of  eggs 
and  pats  of  butter,  and  little  bowls  with  about  a  farthing's 
worth  of  green  tea  in  them,  —  for  some  great  day  of  fete, 
doubtless.  The  old  ladies  sat  round  as  we  examined 
these  things,  each  eating  soberly  at  her  ledge  and  never 
looking  round.  There  was  a  bell  ringing  in  the  chapel 
hard  by.  "  Hark  ! "  said  our  guide,  "  that  is  one  of  the 
sisters  dying.  Will  you  come  up  and  see  the  cells  ?  " 

The  cells,  it  need  not  be  said,  are  the  snuggest  little 
nests  in  the  world,  with  serge-curtained  beds  and  snowy 
linen,  and  saints  and  martyrs  pinned  against  the  wall. 
"  We  may  sit  up  till  twelve  o'clock  if  we  like,"  said  the 
nun ;  "  but  we  have  no  fire  and  candle,  and  so  what 's  the 
use  of  sitting  up  ?  When  we  have  said  our  prayers  we 
are  glad  enough  to  go  to  sleep." 

I  forget,  although  the  good  soul  told  us,  how  many 
times  in  the  day,  in  public  and  in  private,  these  devotions 
are  made,  but  fancy  that  the  morning  service  in  the 
chapel  takes  place  at  too  early  an  hour  for  most  easy 
travellers.  We  did  not  fail  to  attend  in  the  evening, 
when  likewise  is  a  general  muster  of  the  seven  hundred, 
minus  the  absent  and  sick,  and  the  sight  is  not  a  little 
curious  and  striking  to  a  stranger. 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  171 

The  chapel  is  a  very  big  whitewashed  place  of  wor- 
ship, supported  by  half  a  dozen  columns  on  either  side, 
over  each  of  which  stands  the  statue  of  an  Apostle, 
with  his  emblem  of  martyrdom.  Nobody  was  as  yet 
at  the  distant  altar,  which  was  too  far  off  to  see  very 
distinctly ;  but  I  could  perceive  two  statues  over  it,  one 
of  which  (St.  Lawrence,  no  doubt)  was  leaning  upon  a 
huge  gilt  gridiron  that  the  sun  lighted  up  in  a  blaze,  —  a 
painful  but  not  a  romantic  instrument  of  death.  A  couple 
of  old  ladies  in  white  hoods  were  tugging  and  swaying 
about  at  two  bell-ropes  that  came  down  into  the  middle 
of  the  church,  and  at  least  five  hundred  others  in  white 
veils  were  seated  all  round  about  us  in  mute  contempla- 
tion until  the  service  began,  looking  very  solemn,  and 
white,  and  ghastly,  like  an  army  of  tombstones  by  moon- 
light. 

The  service  commenced  as  the  clock  finished  striking 
seven ;  the  organ  pealed  out,  a  very  cracked  and  old  one, 
and  presently  some  weak  old  voice  from  the  choir  over- 
head quavered  out  a  canticle ;  which  done,  a  thin  old 
voice  of  a  priest  at  the  altar  far  off  (and  which  had  now 
become  quite  gloomy  in  the  sunset)  chanted  feebly  an- 
other part  of  the  service ;  then  the  nuns  warbled  once 
more  overhead ;  and  it  was  curious  to  hear,  in  the  inter- 
vals of  the  most  lugubrious  chants,  how  the  organ  went 
off  with  some  extremely  cheerful  military  or  profane  air. 
At  one  time  was  a  march,  at  another  a  quick  tune ;  which 
ceasing,  the  old  nuns  began  again,  and  so  sung  until  the 
service  was  ended. 

In  the  midst  of  it  one  of  the  while-veiled  sisters  ap- 
proached us  with  a  very  mysterious  air,  and  put  down 
her  white  veil  close  to  our  ears,  and  whispered.  Were 
we  doing  anything  wrong,  I  wondered?  Were  they 


172  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

come  to  that  part  of  the  service  where  heretics  and  infi- 
dels ought  to  quit  the  church  ?  What  have  you  to  ask, 
O  sacred,  white-veiled  maid  ? 

All  she  said  was,  "  Deux  centiemes  pour  les  suisses" 
which  sum  was  paid  ;  and  presently  the  old  ladies,  rising 
from  their  chairs  one  by  one,  came  in  face  of  the 
altar,  where  they  knelt  down,  and  said  a  short  prayer ; 
then,  rising,  unpinned  their  veils,  and  folded  them  up  all 
exactly  in  the  same  folds  and  fashion,  and  laid  them 
square  like  napkins  on  their  heads,  and  tucked  up  their 
long  black  outer  dresses,  and  trudged  off  to  their  con- 
vents. 

The  novices  wear  black  veils,  under  one  of  which  I 
saw  a  young,  sad,  handsome  face.  It  was  the  only  thing 
in  the  establishment  that  was  the  least  romantic  or 
gloomy  ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  any  reader  of  a  sentimental 
turn,  let  us  hope  that  the  poor  soul  has  been  crossed  in 
love,  and  that  over  some  soul-stirring  tragedy  that  black 
curtain  has  fallen. 

Ghent  has,  I  believe,  been  called  a  vulgar  Venice.  It 
contains  dirty  canals  and  old  houses  that  must  satisfy  the 
most  eager  antiquary,  though  the  buildings  are  not  quite 
in  so  good  preservation  as  others  that  may  be  seen  in  the 
Netherlands.  The  commercial  bustle  of  the  place  seems 
considerable,  and  it  contains  more  beer-shops  than  any 
city  I  ever  saw. 

These  beer-shops  seem  the  only  amusement  of  the  in- 
habitants, until,  at  least,  the  theatre  shall  be  built,  of 
which  the  elevation  is  now  complete,  —  a  very  handsome 
and  extensive  pile.  There  are  beer-shops  in  the  cellars 
of  the  houses,  which  are  frequented,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed, by  the  lower  sort;  there  are  beer-shops  at  the 
barriers,  where  the  citizens  and  their  families  repair ;  and 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  173 

beer-shops  in  the  town,  glaring  with  gas ;  with  long  gauze 
blinds,  however,  to  hide  what  I  hear  is  a  rather  question- 
able reputation. 

Our  inn,  the  Hotel  of  the  Post,  a  spacious  and  com- 
fortable residence,  is  on  a  little  place  planted  round  with 
trees,  and  that  seems  to  be  the  Palais  Royal  of  the  town. 
Three  clubs,  which  look  from  without  to  be  very  com- 
fortable, ornament  this  square  with  their  gas-lamps. 
Here  stands,  too,  the  theatre  that  is  to  be  ;  there  is  a  cafe, 
and  on  evenings  a  military  band  plays  the  very  worst  mu- 
sic I  ever  remember  to  have  heard.  I  went  out  to-night  to 
take  a  quiet  walk  upon  this  place,  and  the  horrid  brazen 
discord  of  these  trumpeters  set  me  half  mad. 

I  went  to  the  cafe  for  refuge,  passing  on  the  way  a 
subterraneous  beer-shop,  where  men  and  women  were 
drinking  to  the  sweet  music  of  a  cracked  barrel-organ. 
They  take  in  a  couple  of  French  papers  at  this  cafe,  and 
the  same  number  of  Belgian  journals.  You  may  imagine 
how  well  the  latter  are  informed,  when  you  hear  that  the 
battle  of  Boulogne,  fought  by  the  immortal  Louis  Na- 
poleon, was  not  known  here  until  some  gentlemen  out  of 
Norfolk  brought  the  News  from  London,  and  until  it  had 
travelled  to  Paris,  and  from  Paris  to  Brussels.  For  a 
whole  hour  I  could  not  get  a  newspaper  at  the  cafe  ;  the 
horrible  brass  band  in  the  mean  time  had  quitted  the 
place,  and  now,  to  amuse  the  Ghent  citizens,  a  couple  of 
little  boys  came  to  the  cafe,  and  set  up  a  small  concert. 
One  played  ill  on  the  guitar,  but  sang,  very  sweetly, 
plaintive  French  ballads.  The  other  was  the  comic 
singer.  He  carried  about  with  him  a  queer,  long,  damp- 
looking,  mouldy  white  hat,  with  no  brim.  " Ecoutez" 
said  the  waiter  to  me,  "  il  va  faire  T Anglais,  Jest  tres 
drolel"  The  little  rogue  mounted  his  immense  brim- 


174  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

less  hat,  and,  thrusting  his  thumbs  into  the  arm-holes  of 
his  waistcoat,  began  to  faire  I 'Anglais,  with  a  song  in 
which  swearing  was  the  principal  joke.  We  all  laughed 
at  this,  and,  indeed,  the  little  rascal  seemed  to  have  a 
good  deal  of  humor. 

How  they  hate  us,  these  foreigners,  in  Belgium  as 
much  as  in  France !  What  lies  they  tell  of  us,  how 
gladly  they  would  see  us  humiliated!  Honest  folks  at 
home  over  their  port  wine  say,  ."Ay,  ay  (and  very  good 
reason  they  have  too),  national  vanity,  sir,  wounded,  — 
we  have  beaten  them  so  often."  My  dear  sir,  there  is 
not  a  greater  error  in  the  world  than  this.  They  hate 
you  because  you  are  stupid,  hard  to  please,  and  intolera- 
bly insolent  and  air-giving.  I  walked  with  an  English- 
man yesterday,  who  asked  the  way  to  a  street  of  which 
he  pronounced  the  name  very  badly  to  a  little  Flemish 
boy ;  the  Flemish  boy  did  not  answer,  and  there  was  my 
Englishman  quite  in  a  rage,  shrieking  in  the  child's  ear  as 
if  he  must  answer.  He  seemed  to  think  that  it  was  the 
duty  of  "  the  snob,"  as  he  called  him,  to  obey  the  gentleman. 
This  is  why  we  are  hated  —  for  pride.  In  our  free  country 
a  tradesman,  a  lacquey,  or  a  waiter,  will  submit  to  almost 
any  given  insult  from  a  gentleman:  in  these  benighted 
lands  one  man  is  as  good  as  another ;  and  pray  God  it 
may  soon  be  so  with  us !  Of  all  European  people,  which 
is  the  nation  that  has  the  most  haughtiness,  the  strongest 
prejudices,  the  greatest  reserve,  the  greatest  dulness?  I 
say  an  Englishman  of  the  genteel  classes.  An  honest 
groom  jokes  and  hobs-and-nobs  and  makes  his  way  with 
the  kitchen-maids,  for  there  is  good  social  nature  in  the 
man ;  his  master  dare  not  unbend.  Look  at  him,  how  he 
scowls  at  you  on  your  entering  an  inn-room ;  think  how 
you  scowl  yourself  to  meet  his  scowl.  To-day,  as  we 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  175 

were  walking  and  staring  about  the  place,  a  worthy  old 
gentleman  in  a  carriage,  seeing  a  pair  of  strangers,  took 
off  his  hat  and  bowed  very  gravely  with  his  old  powdered 
head  out  of  the  window :  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  our  first 
impulse  was  to  burst  out  laughing,  —  it  seemed  so  su- 
premely ridiculous  that  a  stranger  should  notice  and  wel- 
come another. 

As  for  the  notion  that  foreigners  hate  us  because  we 
have  beaten  them  so  often,  my  dear  sir,  this  is  the  great- 
est error  in  the  world :  well-educated  Frenchmen  do  not 
believe  that  we  have  beaten  them.  A  man  was  once  ready 
to  call  rne  out  in  Paris  because  I  said  that  we  had  beaten 
the  French  in  Spain  ;  and  here  before  rne  is  a  French 
paper,  with  a  London  correspondent  discoursing  about 
Louis  Bonaparte  and  his  jackass  expedition  to  Boulogne. 
"  He  was  received  at  Eglintoun,  it  is  true,"  says  the  cor- 
respondent, "but  what  do  you  think  was  the  reason? 
Because  the  English  nobility  were  anxious  to  revenge 
upon  his  person  (with  some  coups  de  lance)  the  checks 
which  the  '  grand  homme '  his  uncle  had  inflicted  on  us 
in  Spain" 

This  opinion  is  so  general  among  the  French,  that  they 
would  laugh  at  you  with  scornful  incredulity  if  you  ven- 
tured to  assert  any  other.  Foy's  history  of  the  Spanish 
War,  does  not,  unluckily,  go  far  enough.  I  have  read  a 
French  history  which  hardly  mentions  the  war  in  Spain, 
and  calls  the  battle  of  Salamanca  a  French  victory.  You 
know  how  the  other  day,  and  in  the  teeth  of  all  evidence, 
the  French  swore  to  their  victory  of  Toulouse  :  and  so  it  is 
with  the  rest ;  and  you  may  set  it  down  as  pretty  certain, 
1st,  That  only  a  few  people  know  the  real  state  of  things 
in  France,  as  to  the  matter  in  dispute  between  us ;  2d, 
That  those  who  do,  keep  the  truth  to  themselves,  and  so 
it  is  as  if  it  had  never  been. 


176  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

These  Belgians  have  caught  up,  and  quite  naturally, 
the  French  tone.  We  are  perfide  Albion  with  them  still. 
Here  is  the  Ghent  paper,  which  declares  that  it  is  be- 
yond a  doubt  that  Louis  Napoleon  was  sent  by  the  Eng- 
lish and  Lord  Palmerston ;  and  though  it  states  in  an- 
other part  of  the  journal  (from  English  authority)  that 
the  prince  had  never  seen  Lord  Palmerston,  yet  the  lie 
will  remain  uppermost,  —  the  people  and  the  editor  will 
believe  it  to  the  end  of  time.  *  *  See  to  what  a  di- 
gression yonder  little  fellow  in  the  tall  hat  has  given  rise  ! 
Let  us  make  his  picture,  and  have  done  with  him. 

I  could  not  understand,  in  my  walks  about  this  place, 
which  is  certainly  picturesque  enough,  and  contains  ex- 
traordinary charms  in  the  shapes  of  old  gables,  quaint 
spires,  and  broad  shining  canals,  —  I  could  not  at  first 
comprehend  why,  for  all  this,  the  town  was  especially 
disagreeable  to  me,  and  have  only  just  hit  on  the  reason 
why.  Sweetest  Juliana,  you  will  never  guess  it:  it  is 
simply  this,  that  I  have  not  seen  a  single  decent-looking 
woman  in  the  whole  place  ;  they  look  all  ugly,  with  coarse 
mouths,  vulgar  figures,  mean  mercantile  faces ;  and  so 
the  traveller  walking  among  them  finds  the  pleasure  of 
his  walk  excessively  damped,  and  the  impressions  made 
upon  him  disagreeable. 

In  the  Academy  there  are  no  pictures  of  merit ;  but 
sometimes  a  second-rate  picture  is  as  pleasing  as  the  best, 
and  one  may  pass  an  hour  here  very  pleasantly.  There 
is  a  room  appropriated  to  Belgian  artists,  of  which  I 
never  saw  the  like ;  they  are,  like  all  the  rest  of  the 
things  in  this  country,  miserable  imitations  of  the  French 
school,  —  great  nude  Venuses,  and  Junos  a  la  David, 
with  the  drawing  left  out. 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  177 

BRUGES. 

The  change  from  vulgar  Ghent,  with  its  ugly  women 
and  coarse  bustle,  to  this  quiet,  old,  half-deserted,  cleanly 
Bruges,  was  very  pleasant.  I  have  seen  old  men  at  Ver- 
sailles, with  shabby  coats  and  pigtails,  sunning  themselves 
on  the  benches  in  the  walls.  They  had  seen  better  days, 
to  be  sure,  but  they  were  gentlemen  still.  And  so  we 
found,  this  morning,  old  dowager  Bruges  basking  in  the 
pleasant  August  sun,  and  looking,  if  not  prosperous,  at 
least  cheerful  and  well-bred.  It  is  the  quaintest  and 
prettiest  of  all  the  quaint  and  pretty  towns  I  have  seen. 
A  painter  might  spend  months  here,  and  wander  from 
church  to  church,  and  admire  old  towers  and  pinnacles, 
tall  gables,  bright  canals,  and  pretty  little  patches  of 
green  garden  and  moss-grown  wall,  that  reflect  in  the 
clear  quiet  water.  Before  the  inn-window  is  a  garden, 
from  which  in  the  early  morning  issues  a  most  wonder- 
ful odor  of  stocks  and  wall-flowers.  Next  comes  a  road 
with  trees  of  admirable  green.  Numbers  of  little  chil- 
dren are  playing  in  this  road  (the  place  is  so  clean  that 
they  may  roll  in  it  all  day  without  soiling  their  pina- 
fores), and  on  the  other  side  of  the  trees  are  little  old- 
fashioned,  dumpy,  whitewashed,  red-tiled  houses.  A 
poorer  landscape  to  draw  never  was  known,  nor  a  pleas- 
anter  to  see,  —  the  children,  especially,  who  are  inordi- 
nately fat  and  rosy.  Let  it  be  remembered,  too,  that 
here  we  are  out  of  the  country  of  ugly  women.  The  ex- 
pression of  the  face  is  almost  uniformly  gentle  and  pleas- 
ing, and  the  figures  of  the  women,  wrapped  in  long 
black  monk-like  cloaks  and  hoods,  very  picturesque.  No 
wonder  there  are  so  many  children.  The  Guide-book 
(omniscient  Mr.  Murray!)  says  there  are  fifteen  thou- 
sand paupers  in  the  town,  and  we  know  how  such  multi- 

8*  L 


178  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

ply.  How  the  deuce  do  their  children  look  so  fat  and 
rosy  ?  By  eating  dirt  pies,  I  suppose.  I  saw  a  couple 
making  a  very  nice  savory  one,  and  another  employed  in 
gravely  sticking  strips  of  stick  betwixt  the  pebbles  at  the 
house-door,  and  so  making  for  herself  a  stately  garden. 
The  men  and  women  don't  seem  to  have  much  more  to 
do.  There  are  a  couple  of  tall  chimneys  at  either  suburb 
of  the  town,  where  no  doubt  manufactories  are  at  work, 
but  within  the  walls  everybody  seems  decently  idle. 

We  have  been,  of  course,  abroad  to  visit  the  lions. 
The  tower  in  the  Grand  Place  is  very  fine,  and  the  bricks 
of  which  it  is  built  do  not  yield  a  whit  in  color  to  the 
best  stone.  The  great  building  round  this  .tower  is  very 
like  the  pictures  of  the  Ducal  Palace  at  Venice,  and 
there  is  a  long  market  area,  with  columns  down  the  mid- 
dle, from  which  hung  shreds  of  rather  lean-looking  meat, 
that  would  do  wonders  under  the  hands  of  Catterraole  or 
Haghe.  In  the  tower  there  is  a  chime  of  bells  that  keep 
ringing  perpetually.  They  not  only  play  tunes  of  them- 
selves, and  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  but  an  individual 
performs  selections  from  popular  operas  on  them  at  cer- 
tain periods  of  the  morning,  afternoon,  and  evening.  I 
have  heard  to-day  "  Suoni  la  Tromba,"  "  Son  Vergin  Vez- 
zosa,"  from  the  Puritani,  and  other  airs,  and  very  badly 
they  were  played,  too ;  for  such  a  great  monster  as  a 
tower-bell  cannot  be  expected  to  imitate  Madame  Grisi, 
or  even  Signor  Lablache.  Other  churches  indulge  in  the 
same  amusement ;  so  that  one  may  come  here,  and  live 
in  melody  all  day  or  night,  like  the  young  woman  in 
Moore's  Lalla  Rookh. 

In  the  matter  of  art,  the  chief  attractions  of  Bruges 
are  the  pictures  of  Hemling,  that  are  to  be  seen  in  the 
churches,  the  hospital,  and  the  picture-gallery  of  the 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  179 

place.  There  are  no  more  pictures  of  Rubens  to  be 
seen ;  and,  indeed,  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight  one  has 
had  quite  enough  of  the  great  man  and  his  magnificent, 
swaggering  canvases.  What  a  difference  is  here  with 
simple  Hemling,  and  the  extraordinary  creations  of  his 
pencil !  The  hospital  is  particularly  rich  in  them ;  and 
the  legend  there  is  that  the  painter,  who  had  served 
Charles  the  Bold  in  his  war  against  the  Swiss,  and  his 
last  battle  and  defeat,  wandered  back  wounded  and  penni- 
less to  Bruges,  and  here  found  cure  and  shelter. 

This  hospital  is  a  noble  and  curious  sight.  The  great 
hall  is  almost  as  it  was  in  the  twelfth  century.  It  is 
spanned  by  Saxon  arches,  and  lighted  by  a  multiplicity 
of  Gothic  windows  of  all  sizes.  It  is  very  lofty,  clean,  and 
perfectly  well  ventilated.  A  screen  runs  across  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  to  divide  the  male  from  the  female  pa- 
tients, and  we  were  taken  to  examine  each  ward,  where 
the  poor  people  seemed  happier  than  possibly  they  would 
have  been  in  health  and  starvation  without  it.  Great 
yellow  blankets  were  on  the  iron  beds,  the  linen  was 
scrupulously  clean,  glittering  pewter  jugs  and  goblets 
stood  by  the  side  of  each  patient,  and  they  were  provided 
with  godly  books  (to  judge  from  the  binding),  in  which 
several  were  reading  at  leisure.  Honest  old  comfortable 
nuns,  in  queer  dresses  of  blue,  black,  white,  and  flannel, 
were  bustling  through  the  room,  attending  to  the  wants 
of  the  sick.  I  saw  about  a  dozen  of  these  kind  women's 
faces  ;  one  was  young,  —  all  were  healthy  and  cheerful. 
One  came  with  bare  blue  arms  and  a  great  pile  of  linen 
from  an  outhouse,  —  such  a  grange  as  Cedric  the  Saxon 
might  have  given  to  a  guest  for  the  night.  A  couple 
were  in  a  laboratory,  a  tall,  bright,  clean  room,  five  hun- 
dred years  old  at  least.  "  We  saw  you  were  not  very  re- 


180  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

ligious,"  said  one  of  the  old  ladies,  with  a  red,  wrinkled, 
good-humored  face,  "  by  your  behavior  yesterday  in 
chapel."  And  yet,  we  did  not  laugh  and  talk  as  we  used 
at  college,  but  were  profoundly  affected  by  the  scene  that 
we  saw  there.  It  was  a  fete-day  ;  a  mass  of  Mozart  was 
sung  in  the  evening,  —  not  well  sung,  and  yet  so  exqui- 
sitely tender  and  melodious,  that  it  brought  tears  into  our 
eyes.  There  were  not  above  twenty  people  in  the  church, 
all,  save  three  or  four,  were  women  in  long  black  cloaks. 
I  took  them  for  nuns  at  first.  They  were,  however,  the 
common  people  of  the  town,  very  poor  indeed,  doubtless, 
for  the  priest's  box  that  was  brought  round  was  not 
added  to  by  most  of  them,  and  their  contributions  were 
but  two-cent  pieces,  —  five  of  these  go  to  a  penny ;  but 
we  know  the  value  of  such,  and  can  tell  the  exact  worth 
of  a  poor  woman's  mite  !  The  box-bearer  did  not  seem 
at  first  willing  to  accept  our  donation,  —  we  were  strang- 
ers and  heretics ;  however,  I  held  out  my  hand,  and  he 
came  perforce,  as  it  were.  Indeed,  it  had  only  a  franc  in 
it :  but  que  voulez-vous  ?  I  had  been  drinking  a  bottle  of 
Rhine  wine  that  day,  and  how  was  I  to  afford  more  ? 
The  Rhine  wine  is  dear  in  this  country,  and  costs  four 
francs  a  bottle. 

Well,  the  service  proceeded.  Twenty  poor  women, 
two  Englishmen,  four  ragged  beggars,  cowering  on  the 
steps ;  and  there  was  the  priest  at  the  altar,  in  a  great 
robe  of  gold  and  damask,  two  little  boys  in  white  surplices 
serving  him,  holding  his  robe  as  he  rose  and  bowed,  and 
the  money-gatherer  swinging  his  censer,  and  filling  the 
little  chapel  with  smoke.  The  music  pealed  with  won- 
derful sweetness  :  you  could  see  the  prim  white  heads  of 
the  nuns  in  their  gallery.  The  evening  light  streamed 
down  upon  old  statues  of  saints  and  carved  brown  stalls, 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  181 

and  lighted  up  the  head  of  the  golden-haired  Magdalen 
in  a  picture  of  the  entombment  of  Christ.  Over  the  gal- 
lery, and,  as  it  were,  a  kind  protectress  to  the  poor  below, 
stood  the  statue  of  the  Virgin. 


No.  III. 

WATERLOO. 

IT  is,  my  dear,  the  happy  privilege  of  your  sex  in  Eng- 
land to  quit  the  dinner-table  after  the  wine-bottles  have 
once  or  twice  gone  round  it,  and  you  are  thereby  saved 
(though,  to  be  sure,  I  can't  tell  what  the  ladies  do  up 
stairs)  —  you  are  saved  two  or  three  hours'  excessive 
dulness,  which  the  men  are  obliged  to  go  through. 

I  ask  any  gentleman  who  reads  this  —  the  letters  to 
my  Juliana  being  written  with  an  eye  to  publication  —  to 
remember  especially  how  many  times,  how  many  hundred 
times,  how  many  thousand  times,  in  his  hearing,  the  battle 
of  Waterloo  has  been  discussed  after  dinner,  and  to  call 
to  mind  how  cruelly  he  has  been  bored  by  the  discussion. 
"  Ah,  it  was  lucky  for  us  that  the  Prussians  came  up  !  " 
says  one  little  gentleman,  looking  particularly  wise  and 
ominous.  "  Hang  the  Prussians !  "  (or,  perhaps,  some- 
thing stronger)  —  "  the  Prussians  !  "  says  a  stout  old 
major  on  half  pay  ;  "  we  beat  the  French  without  them, 
sir,  as  beaten  them  we  always  have  !  We  were  thunder- 
ing down  the  hill  of  Belle  Alliance,  sir,  at  the  backs  of 
them,  and  the  French  were  crying  *  Sauve  qui  pent '  long 
before  the  Prussians  ever  touched  them  ! "  And  so  the 
battle  opens,  and  for  many  mortal  hours,  amid  rounds  of 
claret,  rages  over  and  over  again. 


182  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

I  thought  to  myself,  considering  the  above  things,  what 
a  fine  thing  it  will  be  in  after-days  to  say  that  I  have 
been  to  Brussels  and  never  seen  the  field  of  Waterloo  ; 
indeed,  that  I  am  such  a  philosopher  as  not  to  care  a  fig 
about  the  battle, —  nay,  to  regret,  rather,  that  when  Na- 
poleon came  back,  the  British  government  had  not  spared 
their  men  and  left  him  alone. 

But  this  pitch  of  philosophy  was  unattainable.  This 
morning,  after  having  seen  the  park,  the  fashionable  boule- 
vard, the  pictures,  the  cafes,  —  having  sipped,  I  say,  the 
sweets  of  every  flower  that  grows  in  this  paradise  of  Brus- 
sels, quite  weary  of  the  place,  we  mounted  on  a  Namur 
diligence,  and  jingled  off  at  four  miles  an  hour  for  Wa- 
terloo. 

The  road  is  very  neat  and  agreeable,  the  forest  of  Soig- 
nies  here  and  there  interposes  pleasantly,  to  give  your 
vehicle  a  shade ;  the  country,  as  usual,  is  vastly  fertile 
and  well  cultivated.  A  farmer  and  the  conductor  were 
my  companions  in  the  Imperial,  and,  could  I  have  under- 
stood their  conversation,  my  dear,  you  should  have  had 
certainly  a  report  of  it.  The  jargon  which  they  talked 
was,  indeed,  most  queer  and  puzzling,  —  French,  I  be- 
lieve, strangely  hushed  up  and  pronounced,  for  here  and 
there  one  could  catch  a  few  words  of  it.  Now  and  anon, 
however,  they  condescended  to  speak  in  the  purest  French 
they  could  muster,  and,  indeed,  nothing  is  more  curious 
than  to  hear  the  French  of  the  country.  You  can't  un- 
derstand why  all  the  people  insist  upon  speaking  it  so 
badly.  I  asked  the  conductor  if  he  had  been  at  the  bat- 
tle ;  he  burst  out  laughing  like  a  philosopher,  as  he  was, 
and  said,  "  Pas  si  bete"  I  asked  the  farmer  whether  his 
contributions  were  lighter  now  than  in  King  William's 
time,  and  lighter  than  those  in  the  time  of  the  emperor  ? 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  183 

He  vowed  that  in  war-time  he  had  not  more  to  pay  than 
in  time  of  peace  (and  this  strange  fact  is  vouched  for  by 
every  person  of  every  nation),  and,  being  asked  where- 
fore the  King  of  Holland  had  been  ousted  from  his  throne, 
replied  at  once,  "  Parce  que  c'etoit  un  voleur"  for  which 
accusation  I  believe  there  is  some  show  of  reason,  his 
majesty  having  laid  hands  on  much  Belgian  property  be- 
fore the  lamented  outbreak  which  cost  him  his  crown.  A 
vast  deal  of  laughing  and  roaring  passed  between  these 
two  worldly  people  and  the  postilion,  whom  they  called 
"  baron,"  and  I  thought  no  doubt  that  this  talk  was  one  of 
the  many  jokes  that  my  companions  were  in  the  habit  of 
making.  But  not  so  ;  the  postilion  was  an  actual  baron, 
the  bearer  of  an  ancient  name,  the  descendant  of  gallant 
gentlemen.  Good  heavens !  what  would  Mrs.  Trollope 
say  to  see  his  lordship  here  ?  His  father,  the  old  baron, 
had  dissipated  the  family  fortune,  and  here  was  this  young 
nobleman,  at  about  five-and-forty,  compelled  to  bestride  a 
clattering  Flemish  stallion,  and  bump  over  dusty  pave- 
ments at  the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hour.  But  see  the 
beauty  of  high  blood,  —  with  what  a  calm  grace  the  man 
of  family  accommodates  himself  to  fortune.  Far  from 
being  cast  down,  his  lordship  met  his  fate  like  a  man ;  he 
swore,  and  laughed,  the  whole  of  the  journey,  and,  as  we 
changed  horses,  condescended  to  partake  of  half  a  pint  of 
Louvain  beer,  to  which  the  farmer  treated  him,  —  indeed 
the  worthy  rustic  treated  me  to  a  glass  too. 

Much  delight  and  instruction  have  I  had  in  the  course 
of  the  journey  from  my  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  the 
author  of  "  Murray's  Hand-book."  He  has  gathered  to- 
gether, indeed,  a  store  of  information,  and  must,  to  make 
his  single  volume,  have  gutted  many  hundreds  of  guide- 
books. How  the  Continental  ciceroni  must  hate  him, 


184  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

whoever  he  is !  Every  English  party  I  saw  had  this  in- 
fallible red  book  in  their  hands,  and  gained  a  vast  deal  of 
historical  and  general  information  from  it.  Thus  I  heard, 
in  confidence,  many  remarkable  anecdotes  of  Charles  V., 
the  Duke  of  Alva,  Count  Egmont,  all  of  which  I  had  be- 
fore perceived,  with  much  satisfaction,  not  only  in  the 
Hand-book,  but  even  in  other  works. 

The  laureate  is,  among  the  English  poets,  evidently  the 
great  favorite  of  our  guide.  The  choice  does  honor  to 
his  head  and  heart.  A  man  must  have  a  very  strong 
bent  for  poetry,  indeed,  who  carries  Southey's  works  in 
his  portmanteau,  and  quotes  them  in  proper  time  and  occa- 
sion. Of  course,  at  Waterloo  a  spirit  like  our  guide's 
cannot  fail  to  be  deeply  moved,  and  to  turn  to  his  favorite 
poet  for  sympathy.  Hark  how  the  laureated  bard  sings 
about  the  tombstones  at  Waterloo :  — 

"  That  temple  to  our  hearts  was  hallowed  now, 

For.  many  a  wounded  Briton  there  was  laid, 
With  such  for  help  as  time  might  then  allow 

From  the  fresh  carnage  of  the  field  conveyed. 
And  they  whom  human  succor  could  not  save, 

Here,  in  its  precincts,  found  a  hasty  grave. 
And  here,  on  marble  tablets  set  on  high, 

In  English  lines  by  foreign  workmen  traced, 
The  names  familiar  to  an  English  eye 

Their  brethren  here  the  fit  memorial  placed, 
Whose  unadorned  inscriptions  briefly  tell 

Their  gallant  comrades'  rank,  and  where  they  fell. 
The  stateliest  monument  of  human  pride, 

Enriched  with  all  magnificence  of  art, 
To  honor  chieftains  who  in  victory  died, 

Would  wake  no  stronger  feeling  in  the  heart 
Than  these  plain  tablets,  by  the  soldier's  hand 

Raised  to  his  comrades  in  a  foreign  land." 

There  are  lines  for  you !  wonderful  for  justice,  rich  in 
thought  and  novel  ideas.  The  passage  concerning  their 
gallant  comrades'  rank  should  be  specially  remarked. 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  185 

There,  indeed,  they  lie,  sure  enough,  —  the  Honorable 
Colonel  This,  of  the  Guards,  Captain  That,  of  the  Hus- 
sars, Major  So-and-So,  of  the  Dragoons,  —  brave  men 
and  good,  who  did  their  duty  by  their  country  on  that 
day,  and  died  in  the  performance  of  it. 

Amen:  but  I  confess  fairly,  that  in  looking  at  these 
tablets  I  felt  very  much  disappointed  at  not  seeing  the 
names  of  the  men  as  well  as  the  officers.  Are  they  to  be 
counted  for  naught?  A  few  more  inches  of  marble  to 
each  monument  would  have  given  space  for  all  the  names 
of  the  men ;  and  the  men  of  that  day  were  the  winners 
of  the  battle.  We  have  a  right  to  be  as  grateful  individ- 
ually to  any  given  private  as  to  any  given  officer ;  their 
duties  were  very  much  the  same.  Why  should  the 
country  reserve  its  gratitude  for  the  genteel  occupiers  of 
the  army-list,  and  forget  the  gallant  fellows  whose  humble 
names  were  written  in  the  regimental  books  ?  In  read- 
ing of  the  Wellington  wars,  and  the  conduct  of  the  men 
engaged  in  them,  I  don't  know  whether  to  respect  them 
or  to  wonder  at  them  most.  They  have  death,  wounds, 
and  poverty  in  contemplation ;  in  possession,  poverty, 
hard  labor,  hard  fare,  and  small  thanks.  If  they  do 
wrong,  they  are  handed  over  to  the  inevitable  provost- 
marshal  ;  if  they  are  heroes,  heroes  they  may  be,  but 
they  remain  privates  still,  handling  the  old  brown  Bess, 
starving  on  the  old  twopence  a  day.  They  grow  gray  in 
battle  and  victory,  and,  after  thirty  years  of  bloody  ser- 
vice, a  young  gentleman  of  fifteen,  fresh  from  a  prepara- 
tory school,  who  can  scarcely  read,  and  came  but  yester- 
day with  a  pinafore  on  to  papa's  dessert,  —  such  a  young 
gentleman,  I  say,  arrives  in  a  spick  and  span  red  coat, 
and  calmly  takes  the  command  over  our  veteran,  who 
obeys  him  as  if  God  and  nature  had  ordained  that  so 
throughout  time  it  should  be. 


186  LITTLE  TRAVELS  AND 

That  privates  should  obey,  and  that  they  should  be 
smartly  punished  if  they  disobey,  this  one  can  under- 
stand very  well.  But  to  say  obey  forever  and  ever, 
—  to  say  that  Private  John  Styles  is,  by  some  physical 
disproportion,  hopelessly  inferior  to  Cornet  Snooks,  —  to 
say  that  Snooks  shall  have  honors,  epaulets,  and  a  marble 
tablet  if  he  dies,  and  that  Styles  shall  fight  his  fight,  and 
have  his  twopence  a  day,  and  when  shot  down  shall  be 
shovelled  into  a  hole  with  other  Styleses,  and  so  forgot- 
ten ;  and  to  think  that  we  had  in  the  course  of  the  last 
war  some  400,000  of  these  Styleses,  and  some  10,000, 
say,  of  the  Snooks  sort,  —  Styles  being  by  nature  exactly 
as  honest,  clever,  and  brave  as  Snooks,  —  and  to  think 
that  the  400,000  should  bear  this,  is  the  wonder ! 

Suppose  Snooks  makes  a  speech.  Look  at  these 
Frenchmen,  British  soldiers,  says  he,  and  remember  who 
they  are.  Two-and-twenty  years  since  they  hurled  their 
king  from  his  throne  and  murdered  him  (groans).  They 
flung  out  of  their  country  their  ancient  and  famous  no- 
bility, —  they  published  the  audacious  doctrine  of  equal- 
ity, —  they  make  a  cadet  of  artillery,  a  beggarly  lawyer's 
son,  into  an  emperor,  and  took  ignoramuses  from  the 
ranks,  —  drummers  and  privates,  by  Jove  !  —  of  whom 
they  made  kings,  generals,  and  marshals !  Is  this  to  be 
borne  ?  (cries  of  No !  no ! )  Upon  them,  my  boys ! 
down  with  these  godless  revolutionists,  and  rally  round 
the  British  lion ! 

So  saying,  Ensign  Snooks  (whose  flag,  which  he  can't 
carry,  is  held  by  a  huge  grizzly  color-sergeant)  draws  a 
little  sword,  and  pipes  out  a  feeble  huzza.  The  men  of 
his  company,  roaring  curses  at  the  Frenchmen,  prepare 
to  receive  and  repel  a  thundering  charge  of  French 
cuirassiers.  The  men  fight,  and  Snooks  is  knighted  be- 
cause the  men  fought  so  well. 


ROAD-SIDE  SKETCHES.  187 

But  live  or  die,  win  or  lose,  what  do  they  get  ?  Eng- 
lish glory  is  too  genteel  to  meddle  with  those  humble  fel- 
lows. She  does  not  condescend  to  ask  the  names  of  the 
poor  devils  whom  she  kills  in  her  service.  Why  was  not 
every  private  man's  name  written  upon  the  stones  in 
Waterloo  Church  as  well  as  every  officer's  ?  Five  hun- 
dred pounds  to  the  stone-cutters  would  have  served  to 
carve  the  whole  catalogue,  and  paid  the  poor  compliment 
of  recognition  to  men  who  died  in  doing  their  duty.  If  the 
officers  deserved  a  stone,  the  men  did.  But  come,  let  us 
away,  and  drop  a  tear  over  the  Marquis  of  Anglesea's  leg ! 

As  for  Waterloo,  has  it  not  been  talked  of  enough  after 
dinner?  Here  are  some  oats  that  were  plucked  before 
Hougomont,  where  grow  not  only  oats  but  flourishing 
crops  of  grape-shot,  bayonets,  and  legion-of-honor  crosses, 
in  amazing  profusion. 

Well,  though  I  made  a  vow  not  to  talk  about  Waterloo 
either  here  or  after  dinner,  there  is  one  little  secret  ad- 
mission that  one  must  make  after  seeing  it.  Let  an  Eng- 
lishman go  and  see  that  field,  and  he  never  forgets  it. 
The  sight  is  an  event  in  his  life ;  and,  though  it  has  been 
seen  by  millions  of  peaceable  gents,  —  grocers  from  Bond 
Street,  meek  attorneys  from  Chancery  Lane,  and  timid 
tailors  from  Piccadilly,  —  I  will  wager  that  there  is  not 
one  of  them  but  feels  a  glow  as  he  looks  at  the  place, 
and  remembers  that  he,  too,  is  an  Englishman. 

It  is  a  wrong,  egotistical,  savage,  unchristian  feeling, 
and  that 's  the  truth  of  it.  A  man  of  peace  has  no  right 
to  be  dazzled  by  that  red-coated  glory,  and  to  intoxicate 
his  vanity  with  those  remembrances  of  carnage  and  tri- 
umph. The  same  sentence  which  tells  us  that  on  earth 
there  ought  to  be  peace  and  good-will  amongst  men,  tells 
us  to  whom  GLOKY  belongs. 


ON    MEN    AND    PICTURES. 


A  PROPOS  OF  A  WALK  IN  THE  LOUVRE. 

PARIS,  June,  1841. 

N  the  days  of  my  youth  I  knew  a  young  fellow 
that  I  shall  here  call  Tidbody,  and  who,  born 
in  a  provincial  town  of  respectable  parents, 
had  been  considered  by  the  drawing-master  of 
the  place,  and,  indeed,  by  the  principal  tea-parties  there, 
as  a  great  genius  in  the  painting  line,  and  one  that  was 
sure  to  make  his  fortune. 

When  he  had  made  portraits  of  his  grandmother,  of  the 
house-dog,  of  the  door-knocker,  of  the  church  and  parson 
of  the  place,  and  had  copied,  tant  Uen  que  mal,  the  most 
of  the  prints  that  were  to  be  found  in  the  various  houses 
of  the  village,  Harry  Tidbody  was  voted  to  be  very  nearly 
perfect ;  and  his  honest  parents  laid  out  their  little  sav- 
ings in  sending  the  lad  to  Rome  and  Paris. 

I  saw  him  in  the  latter  town  in  the  year  '32,  before  an 
immense  easel,  perched  upon  a  high  stool,  and  copying 
with  perfect  complacency  a  Correggio  in  the  gallery, 
which  he  thought  he  had  imitated  to  a  nicety.  No  mis- 
givings ever  entered  into  the  man's  mind  that  he  was 
making  an  ass  of  himself;  he  never  once  paused  to  con- 
sider that  his  copy  was  as  much  like  the  Correggio  as  my 
nose  is  like  the  Apollo's.  But  he  rose  early  of  mornings, 
and  scrubbed  away  all  day  with  his  macgilps  and  var- 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  189 

mshes ;  he  worked  away  through  cold  and  through  sun- 
shine ;  when  other  men  were  warming  their  fingers  at  the 
stoves,  or  wisely  lounging  on  the  Boulevard,  he  worked 
away,  and  thought  he  was  cultivating  art  in  the  purest 
fashion,  and  smiled  with  easy  scorn  upon  those  who  took 
the  world  more  easily  than  he.  Tidbody  drank  water 
with  his  meals,  —  if  meals  those  miserable  scraps  of  bread 
and  cheese,  or  bread  and  sausage,  could  be  called,  which 
he  lined  his  lean  stomach  with ;  and  voted  those  persons 
godless  gluttons  who  recreated  themselves  with  brandy 
and  beef.  He  rose  up  at  daybreak,  and  worked  away 
with  bladder  and  brush ;  he  passed  all  night  at  life-acade- 
mies, designing  life-guardsmen  with  chalk  and  stump  ;  he 
never  was  known  to  take  any  other  recreation ;  and  in 
ten  years  he  had  spent  as  much  time  over  his  drawing  as 
another  man  spends  in  thirty.  At  the  end  of  his  second 
year  of  academical  studies,  Harry  Tidbody  could  draw 
exactly  as  well  as  he  could  eight  years  after.  He  had 
visited  Florence,  and  Rome,  and  Venice,  in  the  interval ; 
but  there  he  was  as  he  had  begun,  without  one  single  far- 
ther idea,  and  not  an  inch  nearer  the  goal  at  which  he 
aimed. 

One  day,  at  the  Life-academy  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  I 
saw  before  me  the  back  of  a  shock  head  of  hair  and  a 
pair  of  ragged  elbows,  belonging  to  a  man  in  a  certain 
pompous  attitude  which  I  thought  I  recognized  ;  and 
when  the  model  retired  behind  his  curtain  to  take  his  ten 
minutes'  repose,  the  man  belonging  to  the  back  in  ques- 
tion turned  round  a  little,  and  took  out  an  old  snuffy  cot- 
ton handkerchief  and  wiped  his  forehead  and  lank  cheek- 
bones, that  were  moist  with  the  vast  mental  and  bodily 
exertions  of  the  night.  Harry  Tidbody  was  the  man  in 
question.  In  ten  years  he  had  spent  at  least  three  thou- 


190  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

sand  nights  in  copying  the  model.  When  abroad,  per- 
haps, he  had  passed  the  Sunday  evenings  too  in  the  same 
rigorous  and  dismal  pastime.  He  had  piles  upon  piles  of 
gray  paper  at  his  lodgings,  covered  with  worthless  nudities 
in  black  and  white  chalk. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening  we  shook  hands,  and  I  asked 
him  how  the  arts  flourished.  The  poor  fellow,  with  a 
kind  of  dismal  humor  that  formed  a  part  of  his  character, 
twirled  round  upon  the  iron  heels  of  his  old  patched 
Blucher  boots,  and  showed  me  his  figure  for  answer. 
Such  a  lean,  long,  ragged,  fantastical-looking  personage, 
it  would  be  hard  to  match  out  of  the  drawing-schools. 

"  Tit,  my  boy,"  said  he,  when  he  had  finished  his  pirou- 
ette, "  you  may  see  that  the  arts  have  not  fattened  me 
as  yet ;  and,  between  ourselves,  I  make  by  my  profession 
something  considerably  less  than  a  thousand  a  year.  But, 
mind  you,  I  am  not  discouraged  ;  my  whole  soul  is  in  my 
calling ;  I  can't  do  anything  else  if  I  would  ;  and  I  will 
be  a  painter,  or  die  in  the  attempt." 

Tidbody  is  not  dead,  I  am  happy  to  say,  but  has  a 
snug  place  in  the  Excise  of  eighty  pounds  a  year,  and 
now  only  exercises  the  pencil  as  an  amateur.  If  his  story 
has  been  told  here  at  some  length,  the  ingenious  reader 
may  fancy  that  there  is  some  reason  for  it.  In  the  first 
place,  there  is  so  little  to  say  about  the  present  exhibi- 
tion at  Paris,  that  your  humble  servant  does  not  know 
how  to  fill  his  pages  without  some  digressions ;  and,  sec- 
ondly, the  Tidbodian  episode  has  a  certain  moral  in  it, 
without  which  it  never  would  have  been  related,  and 
which  is  good  for  all  artists  to  read. 

It  came  to  my  mind  upon  examining  a  picture  of  sixty 
feet  by  forty  (indeed,  it  cannot  be  much  smaller),  which 
takes  up  a  good  deal  of  room  in  the  large  room  of  the 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  191 

Louvre.  But  of  this  picture  anon.  Let  us  come  to  the 
general  considerations. 

Why  the  deuce  will  men  make  light  of  that  golden 
gift  of  mediocrity  which  for  the  most  part  they  possess, 
and  strive  so  absurdly  at  the  sublime  ?  What  is  it  that 
makes  a  fortune  in  this  world  but  energetic  mediocrity  ? 
What  is  it  that  is  so  respected  and  prosperous  as  good, 
honest,  emphatic,  blundering  dulness,  bellowing  common- 
places with  its  great  healthy  lungs,  kicking  and  struggling 
with  its  big  feet  and  fists,  and  bringing  an  awe-stricken 
public  down  on  its  knees  before  it  ?  Think,  my  good  sir, 
of  the  people  who  occupy  your  attention  and  the  world's. 
Who  are  they  ?  Upon  your  honor  and  conscience  now, 
are  they  not  persons  with  thews  and  sinews  like  your 
own,  only  they  use  them  with  somewhat  more  activity,  — 
with  a  voice  like  yours,  only  they  shout  a  little  louder,  — 
with  the  average  portion  of  brains,  in  fact,  but  working 
them  more  ?  But  this  kind  of  disbelief  in  heroes  is  very 
offensive  to  the  world,  it  must  be  confessed.  There, 
now,  is  The  Times  newspaper,  which  the  other  day  rated 
your  humble  servant  for  publishing  an  account  of  one  of 
the  great  humbugs  of  modern  days,  viz.  the  late  funeral 
of  Napoleon,  —  which  rated  me,  I  say,  and  talked  in  its 
own  grave,  roaring  way,  about  the  flippancy  and  conceit 
of  Titmarsh. 

O  you  thundering  old  Times!  Napoleon's  funeral 
was  a  humbug,  and  your  constant  reader  said  so.  The 
people  engaged  in  it  were  humbugs,  and  this  your  Michael 
Angelo  hinted  at.  There  may  be  irreverence  in  this, 
and  the  process  of  humbug-hunting  may  end  rather  awk- 
wardly for  some  people.  But,  surely,  there  is  no  conceit. 
The  shamming  of  modesty  is  the  most  pert  conceit  of  all, 
the  precieuse  affectation  of  deference  where  you  don't  feel 


192  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

it,  the  sneaking  acquiescence  in  lies.  It  is  very  hard  that 
a  man  may  not  tell  the  truth  as  he  fancies  it,  without  be- 
ing accused  of  conceit :  but  so  the  world  wags.  As  has 
already  been  prettily  shown  in  that  before-mentioned  little 
book  about  Napoleon,  that  is  still  to  be  had  of  the  pub- 
lishers, there  is  a  ballad  in  the  volume,  which,  if  properly 
studied,  will  be  alone  worth  two-and-sixpence  to  any 
man. 

Well,  the  funeral  of  Napoleon  was  a  humbug;  and, 
being  so,  what  was  a  man  to  call  it  ?  What  do  we  call  a 
rose  ?  Is  it  disrespectful  to  the  pretty  flower  to  call  it  by 
its  own  innocent  name  ?  And,  in  like  manner,  are  we 
bound,  out  of  respect  for  society,  to  speak  of  humbug  only 
in  a  circumlocutory  way,  —  to  call  it  something  else,  as 
they  say  some  Indian  people  do  their  devil,  —  to  wrap  it 
up  in  riddles  and  charades  ?  Nothing  is  easier.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  following  couple  of  sonnets  on  the  sub- 
ject :  — 

The  glad  spring  sun  shone  yesterday,  as  Mr. 
M.  Titmarsh  wandered  with  his  favorite  lassie 
By  silver  Seine,  among  the  meadows  grassy, 

—  Meadows,  like  mail-coach  guards  new  clad  at  Easter 
Fair  was  the  sight  'twixt  Neuilly  and  Passy  j 

And  green  the  field,  and  bright  the  river's  glister. 

The  birds  sang  salutations  to  the  spring  ; 

Already  buds  and  leaves  from  branches  burst : 

"The  surly  winter  time  hath  done  its  worst," 
Said  Michael;  "Lo,  the  bees  are  on  the  wing!  " 
Then  on  the  ground  his  lazy  limbs  did  fling. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  pass'd  by  him  with  my  first. 
My  second  dare  I  to  your  notice  bring, 

Or  name  to  delicate  ears  that  animal  accurst  ? 


To  all  our  earthly  family  of  fools 
My  whole,  resistless  despot,  gives  the  law,  — 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  193 

Humble  and  great,  we  kneel  to  it  with  awe  : 
O'er  camp  and  court,  the  senate  and  the  schools, 
Our  grand  invisible  Lama  sits  and  rules, 

By  ministers  that  are  its  men  of  straw. 

Sir  Robert  utters  it  in  place  of  wit, 
And  straight  the  Opposition  shouts  "Hear,  hear!" 
And,  oh  !  but  all  the  Whiggish  benches  cheer 

When  great  Lord  John  retorts  it,  as  is  fit. 
In  you,  my  Press,*  each  day  throughout  the  year, 

On  vast  broad  sheets  we  find  its  praises  writ. 
0  wondrous  are  the  columns  that  you  rear, 

And  sweet  the  morning  hymns  you  roar  in  praise  of  it  ! 

Sacred  word  !  It  is  kept  out  of  the  dictionaries,  as  if 
the  great  compilers  of  those  publications  were  afraid  to 
utter  it.  Well,  then,  the  funeral  of  Napoleon  was  a  hum- 
bug, as  Titmarsh  wrote  ;  and  a  still  better  proof  that  it 
was  a  humbug  was  this,  that  nobody  bought  Titmarsh's 
book,  and  of  the  ten  thousand  copies  made  ready  by  the 
publisher,  not  above  three  thousand  went  off.  It  was  a 
humbug,  and  an  exploded  humbug.  Peace  be  to  it! 
Parlons  d'autres  chases;  and  let  us  begin  to  discourse 
about  the  pictures  without  further  shilly-shally. 

I  must  confess,  with  a  great  deal  of  shame,  that  I  love 
to  go  to  the  picture  gallery  of  a  Sunday  after  church,  on 
purpose  to  see  the  thousand  happy  people  of  the  working 

*  The  reader  can  easily  accommodate  this  line  to  the  name  of  his 
favorite  paper.  Thus:  — 


"  In  you,  my      p'      each  day  throughout  the  year." 
Or:  — 


"  In  you,  my  j  ^^'  |  daily  through  the  year." 
Or,  in  France  :  — 

"  In  you,  my  Galignani's  Messengere"  ; 

a  capital  paper,  because  you  have  there  the  very  cream  of  all  the  oth- 
ers. In  the  last  line,  for  "morning"  you  can  read  "evening,"  or 
"weekly,"  as  circumstances  prompt. 

9  M 


194  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

sort  amusing  themselves  —  not  very  wickedly,  as  I  fancy 
—  in  the  only  day  in  the  week  on  which  they  have  their 
freedom.  Genteel  people,  who  can  amuse  themselves 
every  day  throughout  the  year,  do  not  frequent  the 
Louvre  on  a  Sunday.  You  can't  see  the  pictures  well, 
and  are  pushed  and  elbowed  by  all  sorts  of  low-bred  crea- 
tures. Yesterday,  there  were  at  the  very  least  two  hun- 
dred common  soldiers  in  the  place,  —  little  vulgar  ruf- 
fians, with  red  breeches  and  three  halfpence  a-day,  ex- 
amining the  pictures  in  company  with  fifteen  hundred 
grisettes,  two  thousand  liberated  shop-boys,  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  forty-one  artist-apprentices,  half  a  dozen  of  liv- 
ery servants,  and  many  scores  of  fellows  with  caps,  and 
jackets,  and  copper-colored  countenances,  and  gold  ear- 
rings, and  large  ugly  hands,  that  are  hammering,  or  weav- 
ing, or  filing,  all  the  week.  Fi  done !  what  a  thing  it  is 
to  have  a  taste  for  low  company  !  Every  man  of  decent 
breeding  ought  to  have  been  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  in 
white  kid  gloves  and  on  horseback,  or  on  hack-back  at 
least.  How  the  dandies  just  now  went  prancing  and 
curvetting  down  the  Champs  Elysees,  making  their 
horses  jump  as  they  passed  the  carriages,  with  their  ja- 
panned boots  glittering  in  the  sunshine  ! 

The  fountains  were  flashing  and  foaming,  as  if  they  too 
were  in  their  best  for  Sunday ;  the  trees  are  covered  all 
over  with  little,  twinkling,  bright  green  sprouts  ;  number- 
less exhibitions  of  Punch  and  the  Fantoccini  are  going  on 
beneath  them  ;  and  jugglers  and  balancers  are  entertain- 
ing the  people  with  their  pranks.  I  met  two  fellows  the 
other  day,  one  with  a  barrel-organ,  and  the  other  with  a 
beard,  a  turban,  a  red  jacket,  and  a  pair  of  dirty,  short, 
spangled,  white  trousers,  who  were  cursing  each  other  in 
the  purest  St.  Giles's  English  ;  and  if  I  had  had  impudence 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  195 

or  generosity  enough,  I  should  have  liked  to  make  up 
their  quarrel  over  a  chopine  of  Strasbourg  beer,  and  hear 
the  histories  of  either.  Think  of  these  fellows  quitting 
our  beloved  country,  and  their  homes  in  some  calm  nook 
of  Field  Lane  or  Seven  Dials,  and  toiling  over  to  France 
with  their  music  and  their  juggling- traps,  to  balance  cart- 
wheels and  swallow  knives  for  the  amusement  of  our 
natural  enemies  !  They  are  very  likely  at  work  at  this 
minute,  with  grinning  bonnes  and  conscripts  staring  at 
their  skill.  It  is  pleasant  to  walk  by  and  see  the  nurses 
and  the  children  so  uproariously  happy.  Yonder  is  one 
who  has  got  a  halfpenny  to  give  to  the  beggar  at  the 
crossing ;  several  are  riding  gravely  in  little  carriages 
drawn  by  goats.  Ah,  truly,  the  sunshine  is  a  fine  thing ; 
and  one  loves  to  see  the  little  people  and  the  poor  bask- 
ing in  it,  as  well  as  the  great  in  their  fine  carriages,  or 
their  prancing  cock-tailed  horses. 

In  the  midst  of  sights  of  this  kind,  you  pass  on  a  fine 
Sunday  afternoon  down  the  Elysian  Fields  and  the  Tuile- 
ries,  until  you  reach  the  before-mentioned  low-bred  crowd 
rushing  into  the  Louvre. 

Well,  then,  the  pictures  of  this  exhibition  are  to  be 
numbered  by  thousands,  and  these  thousands  contain  the 
ordinary  number  of  chefs-d'oeuvre  ;  that  is  to  say,  there  may 
be  a  couple  of  works  of  genius,  half  a  dozen  very  clever 
performances,  a  hundred  or  so  of  good  ones,  fifteen  hun- 
dred very  decent  good  or  bad  pictures,  and  the  remainder 
atrocious.  What  a  comfort  it  is,  as  I  have  often  thought, 
that  they  are  not  all  masterpieces,  and  that  there  is  a 
good  stock  of  mediocrity  in  this  world,  and  that  we  only 
light  upon  genius  now  and  then,  at  rare  angel  intervals, 
handed  round  like  tokay  at  dessert,  in  a  few  houses,  and 
in  very  small  quantities  only!  Fancy  how  sick  one 
would  grow  of  it,  if  one  had  no  other  drink! 


196  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

Now,  in  this  exhibition  there  are,  of  course,  a  certain 
number  of  persons  who  make  believe  that  they  are 
handing  you  round  tokay,  —  giving  you  the  real  imperi- 
al stuff,  with  the  seal  of  genius  stamped  on  the  cork. 
There  are  numbers  of  ambitious  pictures,  in  other  words, 
chiefly  upon  sacred  subjects,  and  in  what  is  called  a  se- 
vere style  of  art. 

The  severe  style  of  art  consists  in  drawing  your  figures 
in  the  first  place  very  big  and  very  neat,  in  which  there 
is  no  harm ;  and  in  dressing  them  chiefly  in  stiff,  crisp, 
old-fashioned  draperies,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  illumi- 
nated missals  and  the  old  masters.  The  old  masters,  no 
doubt,  copied  the  habits  of  the  people  about  them ;  and  it 
has  always  appeared  as  absurd  to  me  to  imitate  these 
antique  costumes,  and  to  dress  up  saints  and  virgins  after 
the  fashion  of  the  fifteenth  century,  as  it  would  be  to 
adorn  them  with  hoops  and  red-heels  such  as  our  grand- 
mothers wore;  and  to  make  a  Magdalen,  for  instance, 
taking  off  her  patches,  or  an  angel  in  powder  and  a 
hoop. 

It  is,  or  used  to  be,  the  custom  at  the  theatres  for  the 
grave-digger  in  "  Hamlet "  always  to  wear  fifteen  or  six- 
teen waistcoats,  of  which  he  leisurely  divested  himself, 
the  audience  roaring  at  each  change  of  raiment.  Do  the 
Denmark  grave-diggers  always  wear  fifteen  waistcoats  ? 
Let  anybody  answer  who  has  visited  the  country.  But 
the  probability  is  that  the  custom  on  the  stage  is  a  very 
ancient  one,  and  that  the  public  would  not  be  satisfied 
at  a  departure  from  the  legend.  As  in  the  matter  of 
grave-diggers,  so  it  is  with  angels;  they  have  —  and 
Heaven  knows  why  —  a  regular  costume,  which  every 
"serious"  painter  follows;  and  which  has  a  great  deal 
more  to  do  with  serious  art  than  people  at  first  may  im- 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  197 

agine.  They  have  large  white  wings,  that  fill  up  a  quarter 
of  the  picture  in  which  they  have  the  good  fortune  to  be ; 
they  have  white  gowns  that  fall  round  their  feet  in  pretty, 
fantastical  draperies ;  they  have  fillets  round  their  brows, 
and  their  hair  combed  and  neatly  pomatumed  down  the 
middle;  and  if  they  have  not  a  sword,  have  an  elegant 
portable  harp  of  a  certain  angelic  shape.  Large  rims 
of  gold-leaf  they  have  round  their  heads  always,  —  a 
pretty  business  it  would  be  if  such  adjuncts  were  to  be 
left  out. 

Now,  suppose  the  legend  ordered  that  every  grave- 
digger  should  be  represented  with  a  gold-leaf  halo  round 
his  head,  and  every  angel  with  fifteen  waistcoats,  artists 
would  have  followed  serious  art  just  as  they  do  now, 
most  probably,  and  looked  with  scorn  at  the  miserable 
creature  who  ventured  to  scoff  "at  the  waistcoats.  Ten  to 
one  but  a  certain  newspaper  would  have  called  a  man 
flippant  who  did  not  respect  the  waistcoats,  —  would 
have  said  that  he  was  irreverent  for  not  worshipping  the 
waistcoats.  But  why  talk  of  it?  The  fact  is,  I  have 
rather  a  desire  to  set  up  for  a  martyr,  like  my  neighbors 
in  the  literary  trade :  it  is  not  a  little  comforting  to  un- 
dergo such  persecutions  courageously.  "  O  Socrate !  je 
boirai  la  cigue  avec  toi !  "  as  David  said  to  Robespierre. 
You,  too,  were  accused  of  blasphemy  in  your  time ;  and 
the  world  has  been  treating  us  poor  literary  gents  in  the 
same  way  ever  since.  There,  now,  is  Bulw 

But  to  return  to  the  painters.  In  the  matter  of  can- 
vas covering,  the  French  artists  are  a  great  deal  more 
audacious  than  ours ;  and  I  have  known  a  man  starve  all 
the  winter  through,  without  fire  and  without  beef,  in  order 
that  he  might  have  the  honor  of  filling  five-and-twenty 
feet  square  of  canvas  with  some  favorite  subject  of  his. 


198  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

It  is  curious  to  look  through  the  collection,  and  see 
how  for  the  most  part  the  men  draw  their  ideas. 
There  are  caricatures  of  the  late  and  early  style  of 
Raphael ;  there  are  caricatures  of  Masaccio ;  there  is 
a  picture  painted  in  the  very  pyramidical  form,  and 
in  the  manner  of  Andrea  del  Sarto ;  there  is  a  Holy 
Family,  the  exact  counterpart  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci; 
and,  finally,  there  is  Achille  Deveria,  —  it  is  no  use  to 
give  the  names  and  numbers  of  the  other  artists,  who  are 
not  known  in  England,  —  there  is  Achille  Deveria,  who, 
having  nothing  else  to  caricature,  has  caricatured  a  paint- 
ed window,  and  designed  a  Charity,  of  which  all  the  out- 
lines are  half  an  inch  thick. 

Then  there  are  numberless  caricatures  in  color  as  in 
form.  There  is  a  Violet  Entombment,  —  a  crimson  one, 
a  green  one  ;  a  light  emerald  and  gamboge  Eve  ;  all 
huge  pictures,  with  talent  enough  in  their  composition, 
but  remarkable  for  this  strange,  mad  love  of  extravagance, 
which  belongs  to  the  nation.  Titian  and  the  Venetians 
have  loved  to  paint  lurid  skies  and  sunsets  of  purple  and 
gold ;  here,  in  consequence,  is  a  piebald  picture  of  crim- 
son and  yellow,  laid  on  in  streaks  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom. 

Who  has  not  heard  a  great,  comfortable,  big-chested 
man,  with  bands  round  a  sleek  double  chin,  and  fat  white 
cushion-squeezers  of  hands,  and  large  red  whiskers,  and  a 
soft  roaring  voice,  the  delight  of  a  congregation,  preaching 
for  an  hour  with  all  the  appearance  and  twice  the  empha- 
sis of  piety,  and  leading  audiences  captive  ?  And  who 
has  not  seen  a  humble  individual,  who  is  quite  confused 
to  be  conducted  down  the  aisle  by  the  big  beadle  with  his 
silver  staff  (the  stalwart  "  drum-major  ecclesiastic  ")  ;  and 
when  in  his  pulpit,  saying  his  say  in  the  simplest  manner 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  199 

possible,  uttering  what  are  very  likely  commonplaces, 
without  a  single  rhetorical  grace  or  emphasis  ? 

The  great,  comfortable,  red- whiskered,  roaring  cushion- 
thumper,  is  most  probably  the  favorite  with  the  public. 
But  there  are  some  persons  who,  nevertheless,  prefer  to 
listen  to  the  man  of  timid,  mild  commonplaces,  because 
the  simple  words  he  speaks  comes  from  his  heart,  and  so 
find  a  way  directly  to  yours  ;  where,  if  perhaps  you  can't 
find  belief  for  them,  you  still  are  sure  to  receive  them 
with  respect  and  sympathy. 

There  are  many  such  professors  at  the  easel  as  well  as 
the  pulpit ;  and  you  see  many  painters  with  a  great  vigor 
and  dexterity,  and  no  sincerity  of  heart ;  some  with  little 
dexterity,  but  plenty  of  sincerity ;  some  one  or  two  in  a 
million  who  have  both  these  qualities,  and  thus  become 
the  great  men  of  their  art.  I  think  there  are  instances 
of  the  two  former  kinds  in  this  present  exhibition  of  the 
Louvre.  There  are  fellows  who  have  covered  great  swag- 
gering canvases  with  all  the  attitudes  and  externals  of 
piety ;  and  some  few  whose  humble  pictures  cause  no  stir, 
and  remain  in  quiet  nooks,  where  one  finds  them,  and 
straightway  acknowledges  the  simple,  kindly  appeal,  which 
they  make. 

Of  such  an  order  is  the  picture  entitled  "  La  Priere,"  by 
M.  Trimolet.  A  man  and  his  wife  are  kneeling  at  an  old- 
fashioned  praying-desk,  and  the  woman  clasps  a  little 
sickly-looking  child  in  her  arms,  and  all  three  are  pray- 
ing as  earnestly  as.  their  simple  hearts  will  let  them. 
The  man  is  a  limner,  or  painter  of  missals,  by  trade,  as  we 
fancy.  One  of  his  works  lies  upon  the  praying-desk,  and 
it  is  evident  that  he  can  paint  no  more  that  day,  for  the 
sun  is  just  set  behind  the  old-fashioned  roofs  of  the  houses 
in  the  narrow  street  of  the  old  city  where  he  lives.  In- 


200  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

deed,  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  looking  at 
this  little  quiet  painting,  and  in  the  course  of  half  a  dozen 
visits  that  I  have  paid  to  it,  have  become  perfectly  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  life  of  the 
honest  missal  illuminator  and  his  wife,  here  praying  at 
the  end  of  their  day's  work  in  the  calm  summer  even- 
ing. 

Very  likely  M.  Trimolet  has  quite  a  different  history 
for  his  little  personages,  and  so  has  everybody  else  who 
examines  the  picture.  But  what  of  that  ?  There  is  the 
privilege  of  pictures.  A  man  does  not  know  all  that  lies 
in  his  picture,  any  more  than  he  understands  all  the  char- 
acter of  his  children.  Directly  one  or  the  other  makes 
its  appearance  in  the  world,  it  has  its  own  private  exist- 
ence, independent  of  the  progenitor.  And  in  respect  of 
works  of  art,  if  the  same  piece  inspire  one  man  with  joy, 
that  fills  another  with  compassion,  what  are  we  to  say  of 
it,  but  that  it  has  sundry  properties  of  its  own  which  its 
author  even  does  not  understand  ?  The  fact  is,  pictures 
"  are  as  they  seem  to  all,"  as  Mr.  Alfred  Tennyson  sings, 
in  the  first  volume  of  his  poems. 

Some  of  this  character  of  holiness  and  devotion  that  I 
fancy  I  see  in  M.  Trimolet's  pictures  is  likewise  observa- 
ble in  a  piece  by  Madame  Juillerat,  representing  Saint 
Elizabeth,  of  Hungary,  leading  a  little  beggar-boy  into 
her  house,  where  the  holy  dame  of  Hungary  will,  no 
doubt,  make  him  comfortable  with  a  good  plate  of  vict- 
uals. A  couple  of  young  ladies  follow  behind  the  prin- 
cess, with  demure  looks,  and  garlands  in  their  hair,  that 
hangs  straight  on  their  shoulders,  as  one  sees  it  in  the 
old  illuminations.  The  whole  picture  has  a  pleasant,  mys- 
tic, innocent  look ;  and  one  is  all  the  better  for  regarding 
it.  What  a  fine  instinct  or  task  it  was  in  the  old  missal 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  201 

illuminators  to  be  so  particular  in  the  painting  of  the  mi- 
nor parts  of  their  pictures !  the  precise  manner  in  which 
the  flowers  and  leaves,  birds  and  branches,  are  painted, 
give  an  air  of  truth  and  simplicity  to  the  whole  perform- 
ance, and  make  nature,  as  it  were,  an  accomplice  and 
actor  in  the  scene  going  on.  For  instance,  you  may  look 
at  a  landscape  with  certain  feelings  of  pleasure ;  but  if 
you  have  pulled  a  rose,  and  are  smelling  it,  and  if  of  a 
sudden  a  blackbird  in  a  bush  hard  by  begins  to  sing  and 
chirrup,  your  feeling  of  pleasure  is  very  much  enhanced, 
most  likely;  the  senses  with  which  you  examine  the 
scene  become  brightened  as  it  were,  and  the  scene  itself 
becomes  more  agreeable  to  you.  It  is  not  the  same  place 
as  it  was  before  you  smelt  the  rose,  or  before  the  blackbird 
began  to  sing.  Now,  in  Madame  Juillerat's  picture  of 
the  Saint  of  Hungary  and  the  hungry  boy,  if  the  flowers 
on  the  young  ladies'  heads  had  been  omitted,  or  not  paint- 
ed with  their  pleasing  minuteness  and  circumstantiality,  I 
fancy  that  the  effect  of  the  piece  would  have  been  by  no 
means  the  same.  Another  artist  of  the  mystical  school, 
Monsieur  Servan,  has  employed  the  same  adjuncts  in  a 
similarly  successful  manner.  One  of  his  pictures  repre- 
sents St.  Augustin  meditating  in  a  garden.  A  great  clus- 
ter of  rose-bushes,  hollyhocks,  and  other  plants,  are  in  the 
foreground,  most  accurately  delineated ;  and  a  fine  rich 
landscape  and  river  stretch  behind  the  saint,  round  whom 
the  flowers  seem  to  keep  up  a  mysterious  waving  and 
whispering  that  fill  one  with  a  sweet,  pleasing,  indescrib- 
able kind  of  awe,  —  a  great  perfection  in  this  style  of 
painting. 

In  M.  Aguado's  gallery  there  is   an  early  Raphael 
(which  all  the  world  declares  to  be  a  copy, — but  no  mat- 
ter).    This  piece  only  represents  two  young  people  walk- 
9* 


202  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

ing  hand-in-hand  in  a  garden,  and  looking  at  you  with  a 
kind  of  "  solemn  mirth  "  (the  expression  of  old  Sternhold 
and  Hopkins  has  always  struck  me  as  very  fine).  A 
meadow  is  behind  them,  at  the  end  of  which  is  a  cottage, 
and  by  which  flows  a  river,  environed  by  certain  very 
prim-looking  trees ;  and  that  is  all.  Well ;  it  is  impossible 
for  any  person  who  has  a  sentiment  for  the  art  to  look 
at  this  picture  without  feeling  indescribably  moved  and 
pleased  by  it.  It  acts  upon  you  —  how  ?  How  does  a 
beautiful,  pious,  tender  air  of  Mozart  act  upon  you? 
What  is  there  in  it  that  should  make  you  happy  and  gen- 
tle, and  fill  you  with  all  sorts  of  good  thoughts  and  kindly 
feelings?  I  fear  that  what  Dr.  Thumpcushion  says  at 
church  is  correct,  and  that  these  indulgences  are  only 
carnal,  and  of  the  earth  earthy ;  but  the  sensual  effort  in 
this  case  carries  one  quite  away  from  the  earth,  and  up 
to  something  that  is  very  like  heaven. 

Now  the  writer  of  this  has  already  been  severely  rep- 
rehended for  saying  that  Raphael  at  thirty  had  lost  that 
delightful  innocence  and  purity  which  rendered  the  works 
of  Raphael  of  twenty  so  divine ;  and  perhaps  it  may  be 
the  critic's  fault  and  not  the  painter's  (I  'm  not  proud, 
and  will  allow  that  even  a  magazine  critic  may  be  mis- 
taken). Perhaps  by  the  greatest  stretch  of  the  perhaps, 
it  may  be  that  Raphael  was  every  whit  as  divine  at  thirty 
as  at  eighteen ;  and  that  the  very  quaintnesses  and  im- 
perfections of  manner  observable  in  his  early  works  are 
the  reasons  why  they  appear  so  singularly  pleasing  to 
me.  At  least,  among  painters  of  the  present  day,  I  feel 
myself  more  disposed  to  recognize  spiritual  beauties  in 
those  whose  powers  of  execution  are  manifestly  incom- 
plete, than  in  artists  whose  hands  are  skilful  and  manner 
formed.  Thus  there  are  scores  of  large  pictures  here, 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  203 

hanging  in  the  Louvre,  that  represent  subjects  taken 
from  Holy  Writ,  or  from  the  lives  of  the  saints,  —  pic- 
tures skilfully  enough  painted  and  intended  to  be  re- 
ligious, that  have  not  the  slightest  effect  upon  me,  no 
more  than  Dr.  Thumpcushion's  loudest  and  glibbest  ser- 
mon. 

Here  is  No.  1475,  for  instance,  —  a  "  Holy  Family," 
painted  in  the  antique  manner,  and  with  all  the  accesso- 
ries before  spoken  of,  viz.  large  flowers,  fresh  roses,  and 
white  stately  lilies ;  curling  tendrils  of  vines  forming  fan- 
tastical canopies  for  the  heads  of  the  sacred  personages, 
and  rings  of  gold-leaf  drawn  neatly  round  the  same. 
Here  is  the  Virgin,  with  long,  stiff,  prim  draperies  of  blue, 
red,  and  white ;  and  old  Saint  Anne  in  a  sober  dress, 
seated  gravely  at  her  side  ;  and  Saint  Joseph  in  a  becom- 
ing attitude ;  and  all  very  cleverly  treated,  and  pleasing 
to  the  eye.  But  though  this  picture  is  twice  as  well 
painted  as  any  of  those  before  mentioned,  it  does  not 
touch  my  heart  in  the  least ;  nor  do  any  of  the  rest  of  the 
sacred  pieces. 

Opposite  the  "  Holy  Family  "  is  a  great  "  Martyrdom 
of  Polycarp,"  and  the  Catalogue  tells  you  how  the  ex- 
ecutioners first  tried  to  burn  the  saint ;  but  the  fire  went 
out,  and  the  executioners  were  knocked  down  ;  then  a 
soldier  struck  the  saint  with  a  sword,  and  so  killed  him. 
The  legends  recount  numerous  miracles  of  this  sort, 
which  I  confess  have  not  any  very  edifying  effect  upon 
me.  Saints  are  clapped  into  boiling  oil,  which  immedi- 
ately turns  cool ;  or  their  heads  are  chopped  off,  and 
their  blood  turns  to  milk  ;  and  so  on.  One  can't  under- 
stand why  these  continual  delays  and  disappointments 
take  place,  especially  as  the  martyr  is  always  killed  at  the 
end ;  so  that  it  would  be  best  at  once  to  put  him  out  of 


204  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

his  pain.  For  this  reason,  possibly,  the  execution  of 
Saint  Polycarp  did  not  properly  affect  the  writer  of  this 
notice. 

M.  Laemlein  has  a  good  picture  of  the  "  Waking  of 
Adam,"  so  royally  described  by  Milton,  —  a  picture  full 
of  gladness,  vigor,  and  sunshine.  There  is  a  very  fine 
figure  of  a  weeping  woman  in  a  picture  of  the  "  Death  of 
the  Virgin  " ;  and  the  Virgin  falling  in  M.  Steuben's  pic- 
ture of  "  Our  Saviour  going  to  Execution,"  is  very  pa- 
thetic. The  mention  of  this  gentleman  brings  us  to  what 
is  called  the  bourgeois  style  of  art,  of  which  he  is  one  of 
the  chief  professors.  He  excels  in  depicting  a  certain 
kind  of  sentiment,  and  in  the  vulgar,  which  is  often  too 
the  true,  pathetic. 

Steuben  has  painted  many  scores  of  Napoleons  ;  and  his 
picture  of  Napoleon  this  year  brings  numbers  of  admir- 
ing people  round  it.  The  emperor  is  seated  on  a  sofa, 
reading  despatches;  and  the  little  King  of  Rome,  in  a 
white  muslin  frock,  with  his  hair  beautifully  curled,  slum- 
bers on  his  papa's  knee.  What  a  contrast!  The  con- 
queror of  the  world,  the  stern  warrior,  the  great  giver  of 
laws  and  ruler  of  nations,  he  dare  not  move  because  the 
little  baby  is  asleep ;  and  he  would  not  disturb  him  for 
all  the  kingdoms  he  knows  so  well  how  to  conquer.  This 
is  not  art,  if  you  please ;  but  it  is  pleasant  to  see  fat, 
good-natured  mothers  and  grandmothers  clustered  round 
this  picture,  and  looking  at  it  with  solemn  eyes.  The 
same  painter  has  an  Esmeralda  dancing  and  frisking  in 
her  night-gown,  and  playing  the  tambourine  to  her  goat, 
capering  likewise.  This  picture  is  so  delightfully  bad, 
the  little  gypsy  has  such  a  killing  ogle,  that  all  the  world 
admires  it.  M.  Steuben  should  send  it  to  London,  where 
it  would  be  sure  of  a  gigantic  success. 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  205 

M.  Grenier  has  a  piece  much  looked  at,  in  the  bour- 
geois line.  Some  rogues  of  gypsies  or  mountebanks  have 
kidnapped  a  fine  fat  child,  and  are  stripping  it  of  its  pret- 
ty clothes ;  and  poor  baby  is  crying  ;  and  the  gypsy-wom- 
an holding  up  her  finger,  and  threatening ;  and  the  he- 
mountebank  is  lying  on  a  bank,  smoking  his  pipe,  —  the 
callous  monster  !  Preciously  they  will  illtreat  that  dear 
little  darling,  if  justice  do  not  overtake  them,  —  if,  ay,  if. 
But,  thank  Heaven !  there  in  the  corner  come  the  police, 
and  they  will  have  that  pipe -smoking  scoundrel  off  to  the 
galleys  before  five  minutes  are  over. 

1056.  A  picture  of  the  galleys.  Two  galley-slaves 
are  before  you,  and  the  piece  is  called,  "  A  Crime  and  a 
Fault."  The  poor  "  Fault "  is  sitting  on  a  stone,  looking 
very  repentant  and  unhappy  indeed.  The  great  "  Crime  " 
stands  grinning  you  in  the  face,  smoking  his  pipe.  The 
ruffian  !  That  pipe  seems  to  be  a  great  mark  of  callosity 
in  ruffians.  I  heard  one  man  whisper  to  another,  as  they 
were  looking  at  these  galley-slaves,  "  They  are  portraits" 
and  very  much  affected  his  companion  seemed  by  the  in- 
formation. 

Of  a  similar  virtuous  interest  is  705,  by  M.  Finart. 
"  A  Family  of  African  Colonists  carried  off  by  Abdel- 
Kader."  There  is  the  poor  male  colonist  without  a  single 
thing  on  but  a  rope  round  his  wrists.  His  silver  skin  is 
dabbled  with  his  golden  blood,  and  he  looks  up  to  heaven 
as  the  Arabs  are  poking  him  on  with  the  tips  of  their  hor- 
rid spears.  Behind  him  come  his  flocks  and  herds,  and 
other  members  of  his  family.  In  front,  principal  figure, 
is  his  angelic  wife,  in  her  night-gown,  and  in  the  arms  of 
an  odious  blackamoor  on  horseback.  Poor  thing,  —  poor 
thing !  she  is  kicking,  and  struggling,  and  resisting  as 
hard  as  she  possibly  can. 


206  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

485.     «  The  Two  Friends."     Debay. 

"Deux  jeunes  femmes  se  donnent  le  gage  le  plus  sacre* 
d'une  amitie  sincere,  dans  un  acte  de  de'voument  et  de  recon- 
naissance. 

"  L'une  d'elles,  faibte,  extenude  d'efforts  inutilement  tentes 
pour  allaiter,  decouvre  son  sein  tari,  cause  du  deperissement 
de  son  enfant.  Sa  douleur  est  comprise  par  son  amie,  a  qui 
la  sante  permet  d'aj  outer  au  bonheur  de  nourrir  son  propre 
enfant,  celui  de  rappeler  a  la  vie  le  fils  mourant  de  sa  com- 
pagne." 

M.  Debay's  pictures  are  not  bad,  as  most  of  the  others 
here  mentioned  as  appertaining  to  the  bourgeois  class; 
but,  good  or  bad,  I  can't  but  own  that  I  like  to  see  these 
honest,  hearty  representations,  which  work  upon  good 
simple  feeling  in  a  good  downright  way;  and,  if  not 
works  of  art,  are  certainly  works  that  can  do  a  great  deal 
of  good,  and  make  honest  people  happy.  Who  is  the 
man  that  despises  melodramas?  I  swear  that  T.  P. 
Cooke  is  a  benefactor  to  mankind.  Away  with  him  who 
has  no  stomach  for  such  kind  of  entertainments,  where 
vice  is  always  punished,  where  virtue  always  meets  its 
reward ;  where  Mrs.  James  Vining  is  always  sure  to  be 
made  comfortable  somewhere  at  the  end  of  the  third  act ; 
and  if  O.  Smith  is  lying  in  agonies  of  death,  in  red 
breeches,  on  the  front  of  the  stage,  or  has  just  gone  off 
in  a  flash  of  fire  down  one  of  the  traps,  I  know  it  is  only 
make-believe  on  his  part,  and  believe  him  to  be  a  good, 
kind-hearted  fellow,  that  would  not  do  harm  to  mortal ! 
So  much  for  pictures  of  the  serious  melo-dramatic  sort. 

M.  Biard,  whose  picture  of  the  "  Slave-trade "  made 
so  much  noise  in  London  last  year,  —  and  indeed  it  is  as 
fine  as  Hogarth, — has  this  year  many  comic  pieces,  and 
a  series  representing  the  present  majesty  of  France, 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  207 

when  Duke  of  Orleans,  undergoing  various  perils  by  land 
and  by  water.  There  is  much  good  in  these  pieces;  but 
I  mean  no  disrespect  in  saying  I  like  the  comic  ones  best. 
There  is  one  entitled  "Une  Distraction."  A  National 
Guard  is  amusing  himself  by  catching  flies.  You  can't 
fail  to  laugh  when  you  see  it.  There  is  "Le  Gros  Peche'," 
and  the  biggest  of  all  sins,  no  less  than  a  drum-major 
confessing.  You  can't  see  the  monster's  face,  which  the 
painter  has  wisely  hidden  behind  the  curtain,  as  beyond 
the  reach  of  art ;  but  you  see  the  priest's,  and,  murder ! 
what  a  sin  it  must  be  that  the  big  tambour  has  just  im- 
parted to  him !  All  the  French  critics  sneer  at  Biard,  as 
they  do  at  Paul  de  Kock,  for  not  being  artistical  enough ; 
but  I  do  not  think  these  gentlemen  need  mind  the  sneer : 
they  have  the  millions  with  them,  as  Feargus  O'Connor 
says,  and  they  are  good  judges,  after  all. 

A  great  comfort  it  is  to  think  that  there  is  a  reasonable 
prospect  that,  for  the  future,  very  few  more  battle-pieces 
will  be  painted.  They  have  used  up  all  the  victories, 
and  Versailles  is  almost  full.  So  this  year,  much  to  my 
happiness,  only  a  few  yards  of  warlike  canvas  are  ex- 
hibited in  place  of  the  furlongs  which  one  was  called  up- 
on to  examine  in  former  exhibitions.  One  retreat  from 
Moscow  is  there,  and  one  storming  of  El  Gibbet,  or  El 
Arish,  or  some  such  place,  in  Africa.  In  the  latter  pic- 
ture you  see  a  thousand  fellows,  in  loose  red  pantaloons, 
rushing  up  a  hill  with  base  heathen  Turks  on  the  top,  who 
are  firing  off  guns,  carabines,  and  other  pieces  of  ord- 
nance, at  them.  All  this  is  very  well  painted  by  Mon- 
sieur Bollange,  and  the  rush  of  red  breeches  has  a  queer 
and  pleasing  appearance.  In  the  Russian  piece,  you 
have  frozen  men  and  cattle ;  mothers  embracing  their  off- 
spring ;  grenadiers  scowling  at  the  enemy,  and  especially 


208  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

one  fellow  standing  on  a  bank  with  his  bayonet  placed  in 
the  attitude  for  receiving  the  charge,  and  actually  charged 
by  a  whole  regiment  of  Cossacks,  —  a  complete  pulk, 
ray  dear  madam,  coming  on  in  three  lines,  with  their 
lances  pointed  against  this  undaunted  warrior  of  France. 
I  believe  Monsieur  Thiers  sat  for  the  portrait,  or  else  the 
editor  of  the  "  Courrier  Francois,"  —  the  two  men  in  this 
belligerent  nation  who  are  the  'belligerentest.  A  propos 
of  Thiers ;  the  "  Nouvelles  a  la  Main  "  have  a  good  story 
of  this  little  sham  Napoleon.  When  the  second  son  of  the 
Duke  of  Orleans  was  born  (I  forget  his  royal  highness's 
title),  news  was  brought  to  Monsieur  Thiers.  He  was 
told  the  princess  was  well,  and  asked  the  courier  who 
brought  the  news,  "  Comment  se  portait  le  Roi  de 
Home  ?  "  It  may  be  said,  in  confidence,  that  there  is  not 
a  single  word  of  truth  in  the  story.  But  what  of  that  ? 
Are  not  sham  stories  as  good  as  real  ones?  Ask  M. 
Leullier ;  who,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  been  said  and  writ- 
ten upon  a  certain  sea-fight,  has  actually  this  year  come 
forward  with  his 

"1311  —  Heroisme  de  I' Equipage  du  Vaisseau  le  Vengeur, 
4  Juin,  1794. 

"  Apres  avoir  soutenu  longtemps  un  combat  acharne  centre 
trois  vaisseaux  Anglais,  le  vaisseau  le  Vengeur  avait  perdu  la 
moitie  de  son  equipage,  le  reste  etait  blesse  pour  la  plupart : 
le  second  capitaine  avait  ete  coupe  en  deux  par  un  boulet ;  le 
vaisseau  etait  rase  par  le  feu  de  Tennemi,  sa  mature  abattue, 
ses  flancs  cribles  par  les  boulets  etaient  ouverts  de  toutes 
parts ;  sa  cale  se  remplissait  a  vue  d'ceil ;  il  s'enfon9ait  dans 
la  mer.  Les  marins  qui  restent  sur  son  bord  servent  la  bat- 
terie  basse  jusqu'k  ce  qu'elle  se  trouve  au  niveau  de  la  mer ; 
quand  elle  va  disparaitre,  ils  s'elancent  dans  la  seconde,  oil  ils 
repetent  la  meme  manoeuvre ;  celle-ci  engloutie,  ils  montent 
sur  le  pont.  Un  troncon  de  m£t  d'artimon  restait  encore  de- 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  209 

bout ;  leurs  pavilions  en  lambeaux  y  sont  cloues  ;  puis,  re'unis- 
sant  instinctivement  leurs  volontes  en  une  seule  peusee,  ils 
veulent  perir  avec  le  navire  qui  leur  a  ete  confie.  Tous,  com- 
battants,  blesses,  mourants,  se  raniment:  un  cri  immense  s'eleve, 
repete  sur  toutes  les  parties  du  tillac:  Vive  la  Republique! 
Vive  la  France  .  .  Le  Vengeur  coule  .  .  les  cris  continuent ; 
tous  . .  les  bras  sont  dresses  an  ciel,  et  ces  braves,  preferant  la 
mort  a  la  captivite,  emportent  triomphalement  leur  pavilion 
dans  ce  glorieux  tombeau."  —  France  Maritime. 

I  think  Mr.  Thomas  Carlyle  is  in  the  occasional  habit 
of  calling  lies  wind-bags.  This  wind-bag,  one  would 
have  thought,  exploded  last  year ;  but  no  such  thing. 
You  can't  sink  it,  do  what  you  will ;  it  always  comes 
bouncing  up  to  the  surface  again,  where  it  swims  and 
bobs  about  gayly  for  the  admiration  of  all.  This  lie  the 
Frenchman  will  believe ;  all  the  papers  talk  gravely 
about  the  affair  of  the  Vengeur,  as  if  an  established  fact : 
and  I  heard  the  matter  disposed  of  by  some  artists  the 
other  day  in  a  very  satisfactory  manner.  One  has  always 
the  gratification,  in  all  French  societies  where  the  matter 
is  discussed,  of  telling  the  real  story  (or,  if  the  subject  be 
not  discussed,  of  bringing  the  conversation  round  to  it, 
and  then  telling  the  real  story)  ;  one  has  always  this 
gratification,  and  a  great,  wicked,  delightful  one  it  is,  — 
you  make  the  whole  company  uncomfortable  at  once  ;  you 
narrate  the  history  in  a  calm,  good-humored,  dispassion- 
ate tone ;  and  as  you  proceed,  you  see  the  different  per- 
sonages of  the  audience  looking  uneasily  at  one  another, 
and  bursting  out  occasionally  with  a  "  Mais  cependant "  / 
but  you  continue  your  tale  with  perfect  suavity  of  man- 
ner, and  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you  have 
stuck  a  dagger  into  the  heart  of  every  single  person 
using  it. 

N 


210  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

Telling,  I  say,  this  story  to  some  artists  who  were  ex- 
amining M.  Leullier's  picture,  —  and  I  trust  that  many 
scores  of  persons  besides  were  listening  to  the  conversa- 
tion, —  one  of  them  replied  to  my  assertion,  that  Captain 
Renaudin's  letters  were  extant,  and  that  the  whole  affair 
was  a  humbug,  in  the  following  way. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  the  sinking  of  the  Vengeur  is  an  estab- 
lished fact  of  history.  It  is  completely  proved  by  the 
documents  of  the  time ;  and  as  for  the  letters  of  Captain 
Renaudin,  of  which  you  speak,  have  we  not  had  an  exam- 
ple the  other  day  of  some  pretended  letters  of  Louis 
Philippe's,  which  were  published  in  a  newspaper  here  ? 
And  what,  sir,  were  those  letters  ?  Forgeries  !  " 

Q.  E.  D.  Everybody  said  sans-culotte  was  right ;  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  if  all  the  Vengeur's  crew  could  rise  from 
the  dead,  and  that  English  cox  —  or  boat  —  swain,  who 
was  last  on  board  the  ship*  of  which  he  and  his  comrades 
had  possession,  and  had  to  swim  for  his  life,  could  come 
forward,  and  swear  to  the  real  story,  I  make  no  doubt 
that  the  Frenchmen  would  not  believe  it.  Only  one  I 
know,  my  friend  Julius,  who,  ever  since  the  tale  has  been 
told  to  him,  has  been  crying  it  into  all  ears  and  in  all  so- 
cieties, and  vows  he  is  perfectly  hoarse  with  telling  it. 

As  for  M.  Leullier's  picture,  there  is  really  a  great 
deal  of  good  in  it.  Fellows  embracing  each  other,  and 
holding  up  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven;  and  in  the  dis- 
tance an  English  ship,  with  the  crew  in  red  coats,  firing 
away  on  the  doomed  vessel.  Possibly,  they  are  only 
marines  whom  we  see;  but  as  I  once  beheld  several 
English  naval  officers  in  a  play  habited  in  top-boots,  per- 
haps the  legend  in  France  may  be,  that  the  navy,  like 

*  The  writer  heard  of  this  man  from  an  English  captain  in  the  navy, 
who  had  him  on  board  his  ship. 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  211 

the  army,  with  us,  is  caparisoned  in  scarlet.  A  good 
subject  for  another  historical  picture  would  be  Cambronne, 
saying,  " La  Garde  meurt  mais  ne  se  rend  pas"  I  have 
bought  a  couple  of  engravings  of  the  Vengeur  and  Cam- 
bronne, and  shall  be  glad  to  make  a  little  historical  col- 
lection of  facts  similarly  authenticated. 

Accursed,  I  say,  be  all  uniform  coats  of  blue  or  of  red ; 
all  ye  epaulets  and  sabertashes ;  all  ye  guns,  shrapnels, 
and  musketoons  ;  all  ye  silken  banners,  embroidered  with 
bloody  reminiscences  of  successful  fights :  down,  —  down 
to  the  bottomless  pit  with  you  all,  and  let  honest  men  live 
and  love  each  other  without  you !  What  business  have 
I,  forsooth,  to  plume  myself  because  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington beat  the  French  in  Spain  and  elsewhere;  and 
kindle  as  I  read  the  tale,  and  fancy  myself  of  a  heroic 
stock,  because  my  uncle  Tom  was  at  the  battle  of  Water- 
loo, and  because  we  beat  Napoleon  there  ?  Who  are  we, 
in  the  name  of  Beelzebub  ?  Did  we  ever  fight  in  our 
lives  ?  Have  we  the  slightest  inclination  for  fighting  and 
murdering  one  another?  Why  are  we  to  go  on  hating 
one  another  from  generation  to  generation,  swelling  up 
our  little  bosoms  with  absurd  national  conceit,  strutting 
and  crowing  over  our  neighbors,  and  longing  to  be  at 
fisticuffs  with  them  again  ?  As  Aristotle  remarks,  in 
war  there  are  always  two  parties;  and  though  it  often 
happens  that  both  declare  themselves  to  be  victorious,  it 
still  is  generally  the  case  that  one  party  beats,  and  the 
other  is  beaten.  The  conqueror  is  thus  filled  with  na- 
tional pride,  and  the  conquered  with  national  hatred,  and 
a  desire  to  do  better  next  time.  If  he  has  his  revenge, 
and  beats  his  opponent  as  desired,  these  agreeable  feel- 
ings are  reversed,  and  so  Pride  and  Hatred  continue  in 
scecula  sceculorum,  and  ribands  and  orders  are  given 


212  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

away,  and  great  men  rise  and  flourish.  "  Remember  you 
are  Britons ! "  cries  our  general ;  "  there  is  the  enemy, 
and  d —  'em,  give  'em  the  bayonet ! "  Hurrah  !  helter- 
skelter,  load  and  fire,  cut  and  thrust,  down  they  go ! 
"  Soldats !  dans  ce  moment  terrible  la  France  vous  re- 
garde  !  Vive  1'Empereur ! "  shouts  Jacques  Bonhomme, 
and  his  sword  is  through  your  ribs  in  a  twinkling. 
"  Children  ! "  roars  Feld-marechal  Sauerkraut,  "  men  of 
Hohenzollernsigmaringen !  remember  the  eyes  of  Vater- 
land  are  upon  you!"  and  murder  again  is  the  conse- 
quence. Tomahee-tereboo  leads  on  the  Ashantees  with 
the  very  same  war-cry,  and  they  eat  all  their  prisoners 
with  true  patriotic  cannibalism. 

Thus  the  great  truth  is  handed  down  from  father  to 
son,  that 

A  Briton,  1 

A  Frenchman, 

An  Ashantee,  >  is  superior  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world ; 

A  Hohenzollernsig- 
maringenite,  &c.,  J 

and  by  this  truth  the  dullards  of  the  respective  nations 
swear,  and  by  it  statesmen  govern. 

Let  the  reader  say  for  himself,  does  he  not  believe 
himself  to  be  superior  to  a  man  of  any  other  country  ? 
We  can't  help  it,  —  in  spite  of  ourselves  we  do.  But  if, 
by  changing  the  name,  the  fable  applies  to  yourself,  why 
do  you  laugh  ? 

KuiS  piSrjs;  fiUTaro)  va>[uve  drj  rrj 
3>a/3uAa  vapparvp, 

as  a  certain  poet  says  (in  a  quotation  that  is  pretty  well 
known  in  England,  and  therefore  put  down  here  in  a  new 
fashion).  Why  do  you  laugh,  forsooth?  Why  do  you 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  213 

not  laugh?  If  donkeys'  ears  are  a  matter  of  laughter, 
surely  we  may  laugh  at  them  when  growing  on  our  own 
skulls. 

Take  a  couple  of  instances  from  "  actual  life,"  as  the 
fashionable  novel-puffers  say. 

A  little,  fat,  silly  woman,  who  in  no  country  but  this 
would  ever  have  pretensions  to  beauty,  has  lately  set  up 
a  circulating  library  in  our  street.  She  lends  the  five- 
franc  editions  of  the  English  novels,  as  well  as  the  ro- 
mances of  her  own  country,  and  I  have  had  several  of  the 
former  works  of  fiction  from  her  store :  Bulwer's  "  Night 
and  Morning,"  very  pleasant,  kind-hearted  reading ;  "  Pe- 
ter Priggins,"  an  astonishing  work  of  slang,  that  ought  to 
be  translated  if  but  to  give  Europe  an  idea  of  what  a  gay 
young  gentleman  in  England  sometimes  is;  and  other 
novels  —  never  mind  what.  But  to  revert  to  the  fat 
woman. 

She  sits  all  day  ogling  and  simpering  behind  her  little 
counter ;  and  from  the  slow,  prim,  precise  way  in  which 
she  lets  her  silly  sentences  slip  through  her  mouth,  you 
see  at  once  that  she  is  quite  satisfied  with  them,  and  ex- 
pects that  every  customer  should  give  her  an  opportunity 
of  uttering  a  few  of  them  for  his  benefit.  Going  there 
for  a  book,  I  always  find  myself  entangled  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  conversation. 

This  is  carried  on  in  not  very  bad  French  on  my  part ; 
at  least  I  find  that  when  I  say  something  genteel  to  the 
library- woman,  she  is  not  at  a  loss  to  understand  me,  and 
we  have  passed  already  many  minutes  in  this  kind  of  in- 
tercourse. Two  days  since,  returning  "  Night  and  Morn- 
ing "  to  the  library-lady  and  demanding  the  romance  of 
"  Peter  Priggins,"  she  offered  me  instead  "  Ida,"  par  M. 
le  Vicomte  Darlincourt,  which  I  refused,  having  already 


214  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

experienced  some  of  his  lordship's  works ;  next  she  pro- 
duced "Stella,"  "Valida,"  "  Eloa,"  by  various  French 
ladies  of  literary  celebrity ;  but  again  I  declined,  declar- 
ing respectfully  that  however  agreeable  the  society  of 
ladies  might  be,  I  found  their  works  a  little  insipid.  The 
fact  is,  that  after  being  accustomed  to  such  potent  mix- 
tures as  the  French  romancers  offer  you,  the  mild  com- 
positions of  the  French  romanceresses  pall  on  the  palate.* 

"Madame,"  says  I,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  "je  lie 
demande  qu'un  roman  Anglais,  "  Peter  Priggins  "  :  1'avez 
vous  ?  oui  ou  non  ?  " 

"  Ah ! "  says  the  library-woman,  "  Monsieur  ne  com- 
prend  pas  notre  langue  c'est  dommage." 

Now  one  might,  at  first  sight,  fancy  the  above  speech 
an  epigram,  and  not  a  bad  one,  on  an  Englishman's  blun- 
dering French  grammar  and  pronunciation ;  but  those 
who  know  the  library-lady  must  be  aware  that  she  never 
was  guilty  of  such  a  thing  in  her  life.  It  was  simply  a 
French  bull,  resulting  from  the  lady's  dulness,  and  by 
no  means  a  sarcasm.  She  uttered  the  words  with  a  great 
air  of  superiority  and  a  prim  toss  of  the  head,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  How  much  cleverer  I  am  than  you,  you  silly 
foreigner !  and  what  a  fine  thing  it  is  in  me  to  know  the 
finest  language  in  the  world  ! "  In  this  way  I  have  heard 
donkeys  of  our  two  countries  address  foreigners  in  broken 
English  or  French,  as  if  people  who  could  not  understand 
a  language  when  properly  spoken  could  comprehend  it 
when  spoken  ill.  Why  the  deuce  do  people  give  them- 

*  In  our  own  country,  of  course,  Mrs.  Trollope,  Miss  Mitford, 
Miss  Pardoe,  Mrs.  Charles  Gore,  Miss  Edge  worth,  Miss  Ferrier,  Miss 
Stickney,  Miss  Barrett,  Lady  Blessington,  Miss  Smith,  Mrs.  Austin, 
Miss  Austin,  &c.T  form  exceptions  to  this  rule;  and  glad  am  I  to 
offer  per  favor  of  this  note  a  humble  tribute  of  admiration  to  those 
ladies. 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  215 

selves  these  impertinent,  stupid  airs  of  superiority,  and 
pique  themselves  upon  the  great  cleverness  of  speaking 
their  own  language  ? 

Take  another  instance  of  this  same  egregious  national 
conceit.  At  the  English  pastry-cook's  —  (you  can't  read- 
ily find  a  prettier  or  more  graceful  woman  than  Madame 
Colombin,  nor  better  plum-cake  than  she  sells)  —  at 
Madame  Colombin's,  yesterday,  a  huge  Briton,  with 
sandy  whiskers  and  a  double  chin,  was  swallowing  pat- 
ties and  cherry-brandy,  and  all  the  while  making  remarks 
to  a  friend  similarly  employed.  They  were  talking  about 
English  and  French  ships. 

"  Hang  me,  Higgins,"  says  Sandy-whiskers,  "  if  I'd 
ever  go  into  one  of  their  cursed  French  ships !  I  should 
be  afraid  of  sinking  at  the  very  first  puff  of  wind  ! " 

What  Higgins  replied  does  not  matter.  But  think 
what  a  number  of  Sandy-whiskerses  there  are  in  our  na- 
tion,—  fellows  who  are  proud  of  this  stupid  mistrust, — 
who  think  it  a  mark  of  national  spirit  to  despise  French 
skill,  bravery,  cookery,  seamanship,  and  what  not.  Swal- 
low your  beef  and  porter,  you  great,  fat-paunched  man  ; 
enjoy  your  language  and  your  country,  as  you  have  been 
bred  to  do  ;  but  don't  fancy  yourself,  on  account  of  these 
inheritances  of  yours,  superior  to  other  people  of  other 
ways  and  language.  You  have  luck,  perhaps,  if  you  will, 
in  having  such  a  diet  and  dwelling-place,  but  no  merit. 
*  *  And  with  this  little  discursive 

essay  upon  national  prejudices,  let  us  come  back  to  the 
pictures,  and  finish  our  walk  through  the  gallery. 

In  that  agreeable  branch  of  the  art  for  which  we  have 
I  believe  no  name,  but  which  the  French  call  genre,  there 
are  at  Paris  several  eminent  professors ;  and  as  upon  the 
French  stage  the  costume-pieces  are  far  better  produced 


216  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

than  with  us,  so  also  are  French  costume-pictures  much 
more  accurately  and  characteristically  handled  than  are 
such  subjects  in  our  own  country.  You  do  not  see  Cima- 
bue  and  Giotto  in  the  costume  of  Francis  the  First,  as 
they  appeared  (depicted  by  Mr.  Simpson,  I  think)  in  the 
Royal  Academy  Exhibition  of  last  year;  but  the  artists 
go  to  some  trouble  for  collecting  their  antiquarian  stuff, 
and  paint  it  pretty  scrupulously. 

M.  Jacquard  has  some  pretty  small  pictures  de  genre  ; 
a  very  good  one,  indeed,  of  fat  "  Monks  granting  Absolu- 
tion from  Fasting " ;  of  which  the  details  are  finely  and 
accurately  painted,  a  task  more  easy  for  a  French  artist 
than  an  English  one,  for  the  former's  studio  (as  may  be 
seen  by  a  picture  in  this  exhibition)  is  generally  a  mag- 
nificent curiosity-shop ;  and  for  old  carvings,  screens, 
crockery,  armors,  draperies,  &c.,  the  painter  here  has  but 
to  look  to  his  own  walls  and  copy  away  at  his  ease.  Ac- 
cordingly Jacquard's  monks,  especially  all  the  properties 
of  the  picture,  are  admirable. 

M.  Baron  has  "  The  Youth  of  Ribera,"  a  merry  Span- 
ish beggar-boy,  among  a  crowd  of  his  like,  drawing 
sketches  of  them  under  a  garden-wall.  The  figures  are 
very  prettily  thought  and  grouped ;  there  is  a  fine  terrace, 
arid  palace,  and  statues  in  the  background,  very  rich  and 
luxurious  ;  perhaps  too  pretty  and  gay  in  colors,  and  too 
strong  in  details. 

But  the  king  of  the  painters  of  small  history  subjects, 
is  M.  Robert  Fleury ;  a  great  artist  indeed,  and  I  trust 
heartily  he  may  be  induced  to  send  one  or  two  of  his 
pieces  to  London,  to  show  our  people  what  he  can  do. 
His  mind,  judging  from  his  works,  is  rather  of  a  gloomy 
turn ;  and  he  deals  somewhat  too  much,  to  my  taste,  in 
the  horrible.  He  has  this  year  "  A  Scene  in  the  Inqui- 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  217 

sition."  A  man  is  howling  and  writhing  with  his  feet 
over  a  fire  ;  grim  inquisitors  are  watching  over  him  ;  and 
a  dreadful  executioner,  with  fierce  eyes  peering  from  un- 
der a  mysterious  capuchin,  is  doggedly  sitting  over  the 
coals.  The  picture  is  downright  horror,  but  admirably 
and  honestly  drawn;  and  in  effect  rich,  sombre,  and 
simple. 

"Benvenuto  Cellini"  is  better  still;  and  the  critics 
have  lauded  the  piece  as  giving  a  good  idea  of  the  fierce, 
fantastic  Florentine  sculptor ;  but  I  think  M.  Fleury  has 
taken  him  in  too  grim  a  mood,  and  made  his  ferocity  too 
downright.  There  was  always  a  dash  of  the  ridiculous 
in  the  man,  even  in  his  most  truculent  moments ;  and  I 
fancy  that  such  simple  rage  as  is  here  represented  scarcely 
characterizes  him.  The  fellow  never  cut  a  throat  with- 
out some  sense  of  humor,  and  here  we  have  him  greatly 
too  majestic  to  my  taste. 

"  Old  Michael  Angelo  watching  over  the  Sick-bed  of 
his  servant  Urbino,"  is  a  noble  painting ;  as  fine  in  feeling 
as  in  design  and  color.  One  can't  but  admire  in  all  these 
the  manliness  of  the  artist.  The  picture  is  painted  in  a 
large,  rich,  massive,  vigorous  manner ;  and  it  is  gratifying 
to  see  that  this  great  man,  after  resolute  seeking  for  many 
years,  has  found  the  full  use  of  his  hand  at  last,  and  can 
express  himself  as  he  would.  The  picture  is  fit  to  hang 
in  the  very  best  gallery  in  the  world;  and  a  century 
hence  will  no  doubt  be  worth  five  times  as  many  crowns 
as  the  artist  asks  or  has  had  for  it. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  great  pictures,  let  us  here  men- 
tion, 

712.  "Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  by  Hippolyto  Flandrin. 

Of  this  portrait  all  I  can  say  is,  that  if  you  take  the 
best  portraits  by  the  best  masters,  —  a  head  of  Sebastian 
10 


218  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

or  Michael  Angelo,  a  head  of  Raphael,  or  one  of  those 
rarer  ones  of  Andria  del  Sarto,  —  not  one  of  them,  for 
lofty  character  and  majestic  nobleness  and  simplicity,  can 
surpass  this  magnificent  work. 

This  seems,  doubtless,  very  exaggerated  praise,  and 
people  reading  it  may  possibly  sneer  at  the  critic  who 
ventures  to  speak  in  such  a  way.  To  all  such  I  say, 
Come  and  see  it.  You  who  admire  Sir  Thomas  and  the 
"  Books  of  Beauty  "  will  possibly  not  admire  it ;  you  who 
give  ten  thousand  guineas  for  a  blowsy  Murillo  will  not 
possibly  relish  M.  Flandrin's  manner ;  but  you  who  love 
simplicity  and  greatness  come  and  see  how  an  old  lady, 
with  a  black  mantilla,  and  dark  eyes,  and  gray  hair,  and  a 
few  red  flowers  in  her  cap,  has  been  painted  by  M.  Flan- 
drin  of  Lyons.  If  I  were  Louis-Philippe,  I  would  send  a 
legion-of-honor  cross,  of  the  biggest  sort,  to  decorate  the 
bosom  of  the  painter  who  has  executed  this  noble  piece. 

As  for  portraits  (with  the  exception  of  this  one,  which 
no  man  in  England  can  equal,  not  even  Mr.  Samuel 
Lawrence,  who  is  trying  to  get  to  this  point,  but  has  not 
reached  it  yet),  our  English  painters  keep  the  lead  still, 
nor  is  there  much  remarkable  among  the  hundreds  in  the 
gallery.  There  are  vast  numbers  of  English  faces  staring 
at  you  from  the  canvases ;  and  among  the  miniatures  es- 
pecially, one  can't  help  laughing  at  the  continual  recur- 
rence of  the  healthy,  vacant,  simpering,  aristocratic  Eng- 
lish type.  There  are  black  velvets  and  satins,  ladies 
with  birds  of  paradise,  deputies  on  sofas,  and  generals 
and  marshals  in  the  midst  of  smoke  and  cannon-balls. 
Nothing  can  be  less  to  my  taste  than  a  pot-bellied,  swag- 
gering Marshal  Soult,  who  rests  his  baton  on  his  stomach, 
and  looks  at  you  in  the  midst  of  a  dim  cloud  of  war.  The 
Duchess  de  Nemours  is  done  by  M.  Winterhalter,  and 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  219 

has  a  place  of  honor,  as  becomes  a  good  portrait ;  and, 
above  all,  such  a  pretty  lady.  She  is  a  pretty,  smiling, 
buxom  blonde,  with  plenty  of  hair,  and  rather  too  much 
hands,  not  to  speak  disrespectfully;  and  a  slice  of  lace 
which  goes  across  the  middle  of  her  white  satin  gown 
seems  to  cut  the  picture  very  disagreeably  in  two.  There 
is  a  beautiful  head  in  a  large  portrait  of  a  lad  of  eighteen, 
painted  by  himself;  and  here  may  be  mentioned  two  sin- 
gle figures  in  pastel  by  an  architect,  remarkable  for  ear- 
nest, spirituel  beauty ;  likewise  two  heads  in  chalk  by 
De  Rudder;  most  charming  sketches,  full  of  delicacy, 
grace,  and  truth. 

The  only  one  of  the  acknowledged  great  who  has  ex- 
hibited this  year  is  M.  Delacroix,  who  has  a  large  picture 
relative  to  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  that  looks  very 
like  a  piece  of  crumpled  tapestry,  but  that  has,  neverthe- 
less, its  admirers,  and  its  merits,  as  what  work  of  his  has 
not? 

His  two  smaller  pieces  are  charming.  "A  Jewish 
Wedding  at  Tangiers,"  is  brilliant  with  light  and  merri- 
ment ;  a  particular  sort  of  merriment,  that  is,  that  makes 
you  gloomy  in  the  very  midst  of  the  hey-day:  and  his 
"  Boat "  is  awful.  A  score  of  shipwrecked  men  are  in 
this  boat,  on  a  great,  wide,  swollen,  interminable  sea,  — 
no  hope,  no  speck  of  sail,  —  and  they  are  drawing  lots 
which  shall  be  killed  and  eaten.  A  burly  seaman,  with 
a  red  beard,  has  just  put  his  hand  into  the  hat,  and  is 
touching  his  own  to  the  officer.  One  fellow  sits  with  his 
hands  clasped,  and  gazing,  —  gazing  into  the  great  void 
before  him.  By  Jupiter,  his  eyes  are  unfathomable !  he 
is  looking  at  miles  and  miles  of  lead-colored,  bitter,  piti- 
less brine  !  Indeed  one  can't  bear  to  look  at  him  long ; 
nor  at  that  poor  woman,  so  sickly  and  so  beautiful,  whom 


220  ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES. 

they  may  as  well  kill  at  once,  or  she  will  save  them  the 
trouble  of  drawing  straws ;  and  give  up  to  their  maws 
that  poor,  white,  faded,  delicate,  shrivelled  carcass.  Ah, 
what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  hungry!  O,  Eugenius  Dela- 
croix !  how  can  you  manage,  with  a  few  paint-bladders, 
and  a  dirty  brush,  and  a  careless  hand,  to  dash  down 
such  savage  histories  as  these,  and  fill  people's  minds 
with  thoughts  so  dreadful  ?  Ay,  there  it  is ;  whenever  I 
go  through'  that  part  of  the  gallery  where  M.  Delacroix's 
picture  is,  I  always  turn  away  now,  and  look  at  a  fat 
woman  with  a  parroquet  opposite.  For  what 's  the  use 
of  being  uncomfortable  ? 

Another  great  picture  is  one  of  about  four  inches 
square,  —  "  The  Chess-players,"  by  M.  Meissonnier,  — 
truly  an  astonishing  piece  of  workmanship.  No  silly 
tricks  of  effect,  and  abrupt  startling  shadow  and  light, 
but  a  picture  painted  with  the  minuteness  and  accuracy 
of  a  daguerreotype,  and  as  near  as  possible  perfect  in  its 
kind.  Two  men  are  playing  at  chess,  and  the  chess-men 
are  no  bigger  than  pin-heads ;  every  one  of  them  an  ac- 
curate portrait,  with  all  the  light,  shadow,  roundness, 
character,  and  color  belonging  to  it. 

Of  the  landscapes  it  is  very  hard  indeed  to  speak,  for 
professors  of  landscapes  almost  all  execute  their  art  well ; 
but  few  so  well  as  to  strike  one  with  especial  attention,  or 
to  produce  much  remark.  Constable  has  been  a  great 
friend  to  the  new  landscape-school  in  France,  who  have 
laid  aside  the  slimy,  weak  manner  formerly  in  vogue, 
and,  perhaps,  have  adopted  in  its  place  a  method  equally 
reprehensible,  —  that  of  plastering  their  pictures  exces- 
sively. When  you  wish  to  represent  a  piece  of  old  tim- 
ber, or  a  crumbling  wall,  or  the  ruts  and  stones  in  a  road, 
this  impasting  method  is  very  successful,  but  here  the 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  •     221 

skies  are  trowelled  on ;  the  light  vaporing  distances  are 
as  thick  as  plum-pudding,  the  cool  clear  shadows  are 
mashed-down  masses  of  sienna  and  indigo.  But  it  is  un- 
deniable that  by  these  violent  means  a  certain  power  is 
had,  and  noon-day  effects  of  strong  sunshine  are  often 
dashingly  rendered. 

How  much  pleasanter  is  it  to  see  a  little  quiet  gray 
waste  of  David  Cox  than  the  very  best  and  smartest  of 
such  works !  Some  men  from  Diisseldorf  have  sent  very 
fine,  scientific,  faithful  pictures,  that  are  a  little  heavy,  but 
still  you  see  that  they  are  portraits  drawn  respectfully 
from  the  great,  beautiful,  various,  divine  face  of  Na- 
ture. 

In  the  statue-gallery  there  is  nothing  worth  talking 
about;  and  so  let  us  make  an  end  of  the  Louvre,  and 
politely  wish  a  good  morning  to  everybody. 


PICTURE    GOSSIP: 


IN  A   LETTER  FROM   MICHAEL   ANGELO    TITMARSH, 

ALL  ILLTJSTRISSIMO   SIGNOR,  IL  MIO  SIGNOR  COLENDISSIMO    AUGUSTO 
HA  ARVK,   PITTORE   IN   ROMA. 


AM  going  to  fulfil  the  promise,  my  dear  Au- 
gusto,  which  I  uttered  with  a  faltering  voice 
and  streaming  eyes,  before  I  stepped  into  the 
jingling  old  courier's  vehicle,  which  was  to 
bear  me  from  Rome  to  Florence.  Can  I  forget  that  night, 
—  that  parting  ?  Gaunter  stood  by  so  affected,  that  for 
the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  he  did  not  swear  once; 
Flake's  emotion  exhibited  itself  in  audible  sobs;  Jelly- 
son  said  naught,  but  thrust  a  bundle  of  Torlonia's  four- 
baiocchi  cigars  into  the  hand  of  the  departing  friend; 
and  you  yourself  were  so  deeply  agitated  by  the  event, 
that  you  took  four  glasses  of  absinthe  to  string  up  your 
nerves  for  the  fatal  moment.  Strange  vision  of  past 
days !  —  for  vision  it  seems  to  me  now.  And  have  I 
been  in  Rome  really  and  truly  ?  Have  I  seen  the  great 
works  of  my  Christian  namesake  of  the  Buonarotti  fami- 
ly, and  the  light  arcades  of  the  Vatican  ?  Have  I  seen 
the  glorious  Apollo,  and  that  other  divine  fiddle-player 
whom  Raphael  painted  ?  Yes,  —  and  the  English  dan- 
dies swaggering  on  the  Pincian  Hill !  Yes,  —  and  have 
eaten  woodcocks,  and  drank  Ovieto  hard  by  the  huge, 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  223 

broad-shouldered  Pantheon  Portico,  in  the  comfortable 
parlors  of  the  Falcone.  Do  you  recollect  that  speech  I 
made  at  Bertini's  in  proposing  the  health  of  the  Pope  of 
Rome  on  Christmas  day  ?  —  do  you  remember  it  ?  / 
don't.  But  his  Holiness,  no  doubt,  heard  of  the  oration, 
and  was  flattered  by  the  compliment  of  the  illustrious 
English  traveller. 

I  went  to  the  exhibition  of  the  Royal  Academy  lately, 
and  all  these  reminiscences  rushed  back  on  a  sudden  with 
affecting  volubility;  not  that  there  was  anything  in  or 
out  of  the  gallery  which  put  me  specially  in  mind  of 
sumptuous  and  liberal  Rome  ;  but  in  the  great  room  was 
a  picture  of  a  fellow  in  a  broad  Roman  hat,  in  a  velvet  Ro- 
man coat,  and  large  yellow  mustachios,  and  that  prodigious 
scowl  which  young  artists  assume  when  sitting  for  their 
portraits,  —  he  was  one  of  our  set  at  Rome ;  and  the 
scenes  of  the  winter  came  back  pathetically  to  my  mind, 
and  all  the  friends  of  that  season,  —  Orifice,  and  his  senti- 
mental songs ;  Father  Giraldo,  and  his  poodle,  and  Mac- 
Brick,  the  trump  of  bankers.  Hence  the  determination 
to  write  this  letter.  But  the  hand  is  crabbed,  and  the 
postage  is  dear,  and,  instead  of  despatching  it  by  the  mail, 
I  shall  send  it  to  you  by  means  of  the  printer,  knowing 
well  that  "  Eraser's  Magazine  "  is  eagerly  read  at  Rome, 
and  not  (on  account  of  its  morality)  excluded  in  the  In- 
dex Expurgatorius. 

And  it  will  be  doubly  agreeable  to  me  to  write  to  you 
regarding  the  fine  arts  in  England,  because  I  know,  my 
dear  Augusto,  that  you  have  a  thorough  contempt  for  my 
opinion,  —  indeed,  for  that  of  all  persons,  excepting,  of 
course,  one  whose  name  is  already  written  in  this  sen- 
tence. Such,  however,  is  not  the  feeling  respecting  my 
critical  powers  in  this  country ;  here  they  know  the  merit 


224  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

of  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  better,  and  they  say,  "  He 
paints  so  badly,  that,  hang  it !  he  must  be  a  good  judge  "  ; 
in  the  latter  part  of  which  opinion,  of  course,  I  agree. 

You  should  have  seen  the  consternation  of  the  fellows 
at  my  arrival !  —  of  our  dear  brethren  who  thought  I 
was  safe  at  Rome  for  the  season,  and  that  their  works, 
exhibited  in  May,  would  be  spared  the  dreadful  ordeal  of 
my  ferocious  eye.  When  I  entered  the  club-room  in 
St.  Martin's  Lane,  and  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy-and- 
water  like  a  bombshell,  you  should  have  seen  the  terror 
of  some  of  the  artists  assembled !  They  knew  that  the 
frightful  projectile  just  launched  into  their  club-room 
must  burst  in  the  natural  course  of  things.  Who  would 
be  struck  down  by  the  explosion  ?  was  the  thought  of 
every  one.  Some  of  the  hypocrites  welcomed  me  mean- 
ly back,  some  of  the  timid  trembled,  some  of  the  savage 
and  guilty  muttered  curses  at  my  arrival.  You  should 
have  seen  the  ferocious  looks  of  Daggerly,  for  example, 
as  he  scowled  at  me  from  the  supper-table,  and  clutched 
the  trenchant  weapon  with  which  he  was  dissevering  his 
toasted  cheese. 

From  the  period  of  my  arrival  until  that  of  the  open- 
ing of  the  various  galleries,  I  maintained  with  the  artists 
every  proper  affability,  but  still  was  not  too  familiar.  It 
is  the  custom  of  their  friends,  before  their  pictures  are 
sent  in  to  the  exhibitions,  to  visit  the  painter's  works  at 
their  private  studios,  and  there  encourage  them  by  say- 
ing, "  Bravo,  Jones  ! "  (I  don't  mean  Jones,  R.  A.,  for  I 
defy  any  man  to  say  bravo  to  him,  but  Jones  in  gen- 
eral,) "  Tomkins,  this  is  your  greatest  work !  "  "  Smith, 
my  boy,  they  must  elect  you  an  associate  for  this ! "  — 
and  so  forth.  These  harmless  banalities  of  compliment 
pass  between  the  painters  and  their  friends  on  such  occa- 


PICTUJRE  GOSSIP.  225 

sions.  I  myself  have  uttered  many  such  civil  phrases  in 
former  years  under  like  circumstances.  But  it  is  differ- 
ent now.  Fame  has  its  privations  as  well  as  its  plea- 
sures. The  friend  may  see  his  companions  in  private,  but 
the  JUDGE  must  not  pay  visits  to  his  clients.  I  stayed 
away  from  the  ateliers  of  all  the  artists  (at  least,  I  only 
visited  one,  kindly  telling  him  that  he  did  n't  count  as  an 
artist  at  all),  would  only  see  their  pictures  in  the  public 
galleries,  and  judge  them  in  the  fair  race  with  their 
neighbors.  This  announcement  and  conduct  of  mine 
filled  all  the  Berners  Street  and  Fitzroy  Square  district 
with  terror. 

As  I  am  writing  this  after  having  had  my  fill  of  their 
works,  so  publicly  exhibited  in  the  country,  at  a  distance 
from  catalogues,  my  only  book  of  reference  being  an  or- 
chard whereof  the  trees  are  now  bursting  into  full  blos- 
som, —  it  is  probable  that  my  remarks  will  be  rather 
general  than  particular,  that  I  shall  only  discourse  about 
those  pictures  which  I  especially  remember,  or,  indeed, 
upon  any  other  point  suitable  to  my  honor,  and  your  de- 
lectation. 

I  went  round  the  galleries  with  a  young  friend  of  mine, 
who,  like  yourself  at  present,  has  been  a  student  of 
"  High  Art "  at  Rome.  He  had  been  a  pupil  of  Mon- 
sieur Ingres,  at  Paris.  He  could  draw  rude  figures  of 
eight  feet  high  to  a  nicety,  and  had  produced  many  heroic 
compositions  of  that  pleasing  class  and  size,  to  the  great 
profit  of  the  paper-stretchers  both  in  Paris  and  Rome. 
He  came,  back  from  the  latter  place  a  year  since,  with 
his  beard  and  mustachios,  of  course.  He  could  find  no 
room  in  all  Newman  Street  and  Soho  big  enough  to  hold 
him  and  his  genius,  and  was  turned  out  of  a  decent  house, 
because,  for  the  purposes  of  art,  he  wished  to  batter  down 
10*  o 


226  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

the  partition  wall  between  the  two  drawing-rooms  he 
had.  His  great  cartoon  last  year  (whether  it  was  Carac- 
tacus  before  Claudius,  or  a  scene  from  the  "Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  I  won't  say)  failed  somehow.  He  was  a 
good  deal  cut  up  by  the  defeat,  and*  went  into  the  country 
to  his  relations,  from  whom  he  returned  after  a  while, 
with  his  mustachios  shaved,  clean  linen,  and  other  signs 
of  depression.  He  said  (with  a  hollow  laugh)  he  should 
not  commence  on  his  great  canvas  this  year,  and  so  gave 
up  the  completion  of  his  composition  of  "  Boadicea  ad- 
dressing the  Iceni " :  quite  a  novel  subject,  which,  with 
that  ingenuity  and  profound  reading  which  distinguishes 
his  brethren,  he  had  determined  to  take  up. 

Well,  sir,  this  youth  and  I  went  to  the  exhibitions  to- 
gether, and  I  watched  his  behavior  before  the  pictures. 
At  the  tragic,  swaggering,  theatrical,  historical  pictures, 
he  yawned ;  before  some  of  the  grand,  flashy  landscapes, 
he  stood  without  the  least  emotion;  but  before  some 
quiet  scenes  of  humor  or  pathos,  or  some  easy  little  copy 
of  nature,  the  youth  stood  in  pleased  contemplation,  the 
nails  of  his  high-lows  seemed  to  be  screwed  into  the  floor 
there,  and  his  face  dimpled  over  with  grins. 

"  These  little  pictures,"  said  he,  on  being  questioned, 
"  are  worth  a  hundred  times  more  than  the  big  ones.  In 
the  latter  you  see  signs  of  ignorance  of  every  kind, 
weakness  of  hand,  poverty  of  invention,  carelessness  of 
drawing,  lamentable  imbecility  of  thought.  Their  hero- 
ism is  borrowed  from  the  theatre,  their  sentiment  is  so 
maudlin  that  it  makes  you  sick.  I  see  no  symptoms  of 
thought,  or  of  minds  strong  and  genuine  enough  to  cope 
with  elevated  subjects.  No  individuality,  no  novelty,  the 
decencies  of  costume  (my  friend  did  not  mean  that  the 
figures  we  were  looking  at  were  naked,  like  Mr.  Etty's, 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  227 

but  that  they  were  dressed  out  of  all  historical  propriety) 
are  disregarded ;  the  people  are  striking  attitudes,  as  at 
the  Coburg.  There  is  something  painful  to  me  in  this 
naive  exhibition  of  incompetency,  this  imbecility  that  is 
so  unconscious  of  its  own  failure.  If,  however,  the  as- 
piring men  don't  succeed,  the  modest  do ;  and  what  they 
have  really  seen  or  experienced,  our  artist  can  depict 
with  successful  accuracy  and  delightful  skill.  Hence," 
says  he,  "  I  would  sooner  have  So-and-so's  little  sketch 
( l  A  Donkey  on  a  Common ' )  than  What-d  'ye-call-'em's 
enormous  picture  ( '  Sir  Walter  Manny  and  the  Crusa- 
ders discovering  Nova  Scotia'),  and  prefer  yonder  un- 
pretending sketch,  *  Shrimp-Catchers,  Morning,'  (how  ex- 
quisitely the  long  and  level  sands  are  touched  off!  how 
beautifully  the  morning  light  touches  the  countenances  of 
the  fishermen,  and  illumines  the  rosy  features  of  the 
shrimps!)  to  yonder  pretentious  illustration  from  Spen- 
ser, *  Sir  Botibol  rescues  Una  from  Sir  Uglimore  in  the 
Cave  of  the  Enchantress  Ichthyosaura.'  " 

I  am  only  mentioning  another's  opinion  of  these  pic- 
tures, and  would  not  of  course,  for  my  own  part,  wish  to 
give  pain  by  provoking  comparisons  that  must  be  disa- 
greeable to  some  persons.  But  I  could  not  help  agreeing 
with  my  young  friend,  and  saying,  "  Well,  then,  in  the 
name  of  goodness,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  only  like  what  is 
real,  and  natural,  and  unaffected,  —  if  upon  such  works 
you  gaze  with  delight,  while  from  more  pretentious  per- 
formers you  turn  away  with  weariness,  why  the  deuce 
must  you  be  in  the  heroic  vein  ?  Why  don't  you  do  what 
you  like  ?  "  The  young  man  turned  round  on  the  iron- 
heel  of  his  high-lows,  and  walked  down  stairs  clinking 
them  sulkily. 

There  are  a  variety  of  classes  and  divisions  into  which 


228  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

the  works  of  our  geniuses  may  be  separated.  There  are 
the  heroic  pictures,  the  theatrical-heroic,  the  religious,  the 
historical-sentimental,  the  historical-familiar,  the  namby- 
pamby,  and  so  forth. 

Among  the  heroic  pictures  of  course  Mr.  Haydon's 
ranks  the  first,  its  size  and  pretensions  call  for  that  place. 
It  roars  out  to  you  as  it  were  with  a  Titanic  voice  from 
among  all  the  competition  to  public  favor,  "  Come  and 
look  at  me."  A  broad-shouldered,  swaggering,  hulking 
archangel,  with  those  rolling  eyes  and  distending  nostrils 
which  belong  to  the  species  of  sublime  caricature,  stands 
scowling  on  a  sphere  from  which  the  Devil  is  just  de- 
scending, bound  earthwards.  Planets,  comets,  and  other 
astronomical  phenomena,  roll  and  blaze  round  the  pair 
and  flame  in  the  new  blue  sky.  There  is  something 
burly  and  bold  in  this  resolute  genius  which  will  attack 
only  enormous  subjects,  which  will  deal  with  nothing  but 
the  epic,  something  respectable  even  in  the  defeats  of 
such  characters.  I  was  looking  the  other  day  at  South- 
ampton at  a  stout  gentleman  in  a  green  coat  and  white 
hat,  who  a  year  or  two  since  fully  believed  that  he  could 
walk  upon  the  water,  and  set  off  in  the  presence  of  a 
great  concourse  of  people  upon  his  supermarine  journey. 
There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  that  the  poor  fellow  got  a 
wetting  and  sank  amidst  the  jeers  of  all  his  beholders.  I 
think  somehow  they  should  not  have  laughed  at  that  hon- 
est ducked  gentleman,  they  should  have  respected  the 
faith  and  simplicity  which  led  him  unhesitatingly  to  ven- 
ture upon  that  watery  experiment ;  and  so,  instead  of 
laughing  at  Haydon,  which  you  and  I  were  just  about  to 
do,  let  us  check  our  jocularity,  and  give  him  credit  for 
his  great  earnestness  of  purpose.  I  begin  to  find  the 
world  growing  more  pathetic  daily,  and  laugh  less  every 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  229 

year  of  my  life.  Why  laugh  at  idle  hopes,  or  vain  pur- 
poses, or  utter  blundering  self-confidence?  Let  us  be 
gentle  with  them  henceforth,  —  who  knows  whether  there 
may  not  be  something  of  the  sort  chez  nous  ?  But  I  am 
wandering  from  Haydon  and  his  big  picture.  Let  us 
hope  somebody  will  buy.  Who,  I  cannot  tell ;  it  will  not 
do  for  a  chapel ;  it  is  too  big  for  a  house  :  I  have  it,  —  it 
might  answer  to  hang  up  over  a  caravan  at  a  fair,  if  a 
travelling  orrery  were  exhibited  inside. 

This  may  be  sheer  impertinence  and  error,  the  picture 
may  suit  some  tastes,  it  does  "  The  Times  "  for  instance, 
which  pronounces  it  to  be  a  noble  work  of  the  highest 
art ;  whereas  the  "  Post "  won't  believe  a  bit,  and  passes  it 
by  with  scorn.  What  a  comfort  it  is  that  there  are  dif- 
ferent tastes  then,  and  that  almost  all  artists  have  thus  a 
chance  of  getting  a  livelihood  somehow  !  There  is  Mar- 
tin, for  another  instance,  with  his  brace  of  pictures  about 
Adam  and  Eve,  which  I  would  venture  to  place  in  the 
theatrical-heroic  class.  One  looks  at  those  strange  pieces 
and  wonders  how  people  can  be  found  to  admire,  and  yet 
they  do.  Grave  old  people  with  chains  and  seals,  look 
dumb-foundered  into  those  vast  perspectives,  and  think 
the  apex  of  the  sublime  is  reached  there.  In  one  of  Sir 
Bulwer  Lytton's  novels  there  is  a  passage  to  that  effect. 
I  forget  where,  but  there  is  a  new  edition  of  them  coming 
out  in  single  volumes,  and  am  positive  you  will  find  the 
sentiment  somewhere.  They  come  up  to  his  conceptions 
of  the  sublime,  they  answer  his  ideas  of  beauty  of  the 
Beautiful,  as  he  writes  with  a  large  B.  He  is  himself  an 
artist  and  a  man  of  genius.  What  right  have  we  poor 
devils  to  question  such  an  authority  ?  Do  you  recollect 
how  we  used  to  laugh  in  the  Capitol  at  the  Domenichino 
Sibyl  which  this  same  author  praises  so  enthusiastically  ? 


230  PICTUKE  GOSSIP. 

a  wooden,  pink-faced,  goggle-eyed,  ogling  creature,  we 
said  it  was,  with  no  more  beauty  or  sentiment  than  a  wax 
doll.  But  this  was  our  conceit,  dear  Augusto ;  on  sub- 
jects of  art,  perhaps,  there  is  no  reasoning  after  all :  or 
who  can  tell  why  children  have  a  passion  for  lollypops, 
and  this  man  worships  beef  while  t'  other  adores  mutton  ? 
To  the  child,  lollypops  may  be  the  truthful  and  beautiful, 
and  why  should  not  some  men  find  Martin's  pictures  as 
much  to  their  taste  as  Milton  ? 

Another  instance  of  the  blessed  variety  of  tastes  may 
be  mentioned  here  advantageously ;  while,  as  you  have 
seen,  "  The  Times  "  awards  the  palm  to  Haydon,  and  Sir 
Lytton  exalts  Martin  as  the  greatest  painter  of  the  Eng- 
lish school,  "  The  Chronicle,"  quite  as  well  informed,  no 
doubt,  says  that  Mr.  Eddis  is  the  great  genius  of  the  pres- 
ent season,  and  that  his  picture  of  Moses's  mother  parting 
with  him  before  leaving  him  in  the  bulrushes  is  a  great 
and  noble  composition. 

This  critic  must  have  a  taste  for  the  neat  and  agreea- 
ble, that  is  clear.  Mr.  Eddis's  picture  is  nicely  colored  ^ 
the  figures  in  fine  clean  draperies,  the  sky  a  bright  clean 
color ;  Moses's  mother  is  a  handsome  woman ;  and  as 
she  holds  her  child  to  her  breast  for  the  last  time,  and 
lifts  up  her  fine  eyes  to  heaven,  the  beholder  may  be  rea- 
sonably moved  by  a  decent  bourgeois  compassion,  —  a 
handsome  woman  parting  from  her  child  is  always  an 
object  of  proper  sympathy,  —  but  as  for  the  greatness  of 
the  picture  as  a.  work  of  art,  that  is  another  question  of 
tastes  again.  This  picture  seemed  to  me  to  be  essentially 
a  prose  composition,  not  a  poetical  one.  It  tells  you  no 
more  than  you  can  see.  It  has  no  more  wonder  or  po- 
etry about  it  than  a  police  report  or  a  newspaper  para- 
graph, and  should  be  placed,  as  I  take  it,  in  the  historic- 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  231 

sentimental  school,  which  is  pretty  much  followed  in 
England, — nay,  as  close  as  possible  to  the  namby-pamby 
quarter. 

Of  the  latter  sort  there  are  some  illustrious  examples ; 
and  as  it  is  the  fashion  for  critics  to  award  prizes,  I  would 
for  my  part  cheerfully  award  the  prize  of  a  new  silver 
teaspoon  to  Mr.  Redgrave,  that  champion  of  suffering 
female  innocence,  for  his  "  Governess."  That  picture  is 
more  decidedly  spooney  than,  perhaps,  any  other  of  this 
present  season ;  and  the  subject  seems  to  be  a  favorite 
with  the  artist.  We  have  had  the  "  Governess  "  one  year 
before,  or  a  variation  of  her  under  the  name  of  "  The 
Teacher,"  or  vice  versa.  The  Teacher's  young  pupils  are 
at  play  in  the  garden,  she  sits  sadly  in  the  school-room, 
there  she  sits,  poor  dear  !  —  the  piano  is  open  beside  her, 
and  (0,  harrowing  thought !)  "  Home,  sweet  home !  "  is 
open  in  the  music-book.  She  sits  and  thinks  of  that  dear 
place,  with  a  sheet  of  black-edged  note-paper  in  her  hand. 
They  have  brought  her  her  tea  and  bread  and  butter  on 
a  tray.  She  has  drunk  the  tea,  she  has  not  tasted  the 
bread  and  butter.  There  is  pathos  for  you  !  there  is  art ! 
This  is,  indeed,  a  love  for  lollypops  with  a  vengeance,  a 
regular  babyhood  of  taste,  about  which  a  man  with  a 
manly  stomach  may  be  allowed  to  protest  a  little  pee- 
vishly, and  implore  the  public  to  give  up  such  puling  food. 

There  is  a  gentleman  in  the  Octagon  Room  who,  to  be 
sure,  runs  Mr.  Redgrave  rather  hard,  and  should  have  a 
silver  pap-spoon  at  any  rate,  if  the  teaspoon  is  irrevoca- 
bly awarded  to  his  rival.  The  Octagon  Room  prize  is  a 
picture  called  the  "  Arrival  of  the  Overland  Mail."  A 
lady  is  in  her  bedchamber,  a  portrait  of  her  husband,  Ma- 
jor Jones  (cherished  lord  of  that  bridal  apartment,  with 
its  drab-curtained  bed),  hangs  on  the  wainscot  in  the  dis- 


232  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

tance,  and  you  see  his  red  coat  and  mustachios  gleaming 
there  between  the  wardrobe  and  the  wash-hand-stand. 
But  where  is  his  lady  ?  She  is  on  her  knees  by  the  bed- 
side, her  face  has  sunk  into  the  feather-bed ;  her  hands 
are  clasped  agonizingly  together  ;  a  most  tremendous 
black-edged  letter  has  just  arrived  by  the  overland  mail. 
It  is  all  up  with  Jones.  Well,  let  us  hope  she  will  marry 
again,  and  get  over  her  grief  for  poor  J. 

Is  not  there  something  naive  and  simple  in  this  down- 
right way  of  exciting  compassion  ?  I  saw  people  looking 
at  this  pair  of  pictures  evidently  with  yearning  hearts. 
The  great  geniuses  who  invented  them  have  not,  you  see, 
toiled  in  vain.  They  can  command  the  sympathies  of  the 
public,  —  they  have  gained  Art-Union  prizes,  let  us  hope, 
as  well  as  those  humble  imaginary  ones  which  I  have  just 
awarded,  —  and  yet  my  heart  is  not  naturally  hard,  though 
it  refuses  to  be  moved  by  such  means  as  are  here  em- 
ployed. 

If  the  simple  statement  of  a  death  is  to  harrow  up  the 
feelings,  or  to  claim  the  tributary  tear,  mon  Dieu  !  a  man 
ought  to  howl  every  morning  over  the  newspaper  obitu- 
ary. If  we  are  to  cry  for  every  governess  who  leaves 
home,  what  a  fund  of  pathos  "  The  Times  "  advertisements 
would  afford  daily  !  we  might  weep  down  whole  columns 
of  close  type.  I  have  said  before,  I  am  growing  more  in- 
clined to  the  pathetic  daily,  but  let  us  in  the  name  of 
goodness  make  a  stand  somewhere,  or  the  namby-pamby 
of  the  world  will  become  unendurable ;  and  we  shall  melt 
away  in  a  deluge  of  blubber.  This  drivelling,  hysterical 
sentimentality,  it  is  surely  the  critic's  duty  to  grin  down, 
to  shake  any  man  roughly  by  the  shoulder  who  seems 
dangerously  affected  by  it,  and,  not  sparing  his  feelings 
in  the  least,  tell  him  he  is  a  fool  for  his  pains,  to  have  no 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  233 

more  respect  for  those  who  invent  it,  but  expose  their 
error  with  all  the  downrightness  that  is  necessary. 

By  far  the  prettiest  of  the  maudlin  pictures  is  Mr. 
Stone's  "  Premier  Pas."  It  is  that  old,  pretty,  rococo, 
fantastic  Jenny  and  Jessamy  couple,  whose  loves  the 
painter  has  been  chronicling  any  time  these  five  years, 
and  whom  he  has  spied  out  at  various  wells,  porches, 
&c.  The  lad  is  making  love  with  all  his  might,  and 
the  maiden  is  in  a  pretty  confusion,  —  her  heart  flut- 
ters, and  she  only  seems  to  spin.  She  drinks  in  the 
warm  words  of  the  young  fellow  with  a  pleasant  convic- 
tion of  the  invincibility  of  her  charms.  He  appeals  nerv- 
ously, and  tugs  at  a  pink  which  is  growing  up  the  porch- 
side.  It  is  that  pink,  somehow,  which  has  saved  the 
picture  from  being  decidedly  namby-pamby.  There  is 
something  new,  fresh,  and  delicate  about  the  little  inci- 
dent of  the  flower.  It  redeems  Jenny,  and  renders  that 
young  prig,  Jessamy,  bearable.  The  picture  is  very 
nicely  painted,  according  to  the  careful  artist's  wont. 
The  neck  and  hands  of  the  girl  are  especially  pretty. 
The  lad's  face  is  effeminate  and  imbecile,  but  his  velvet- 
een breeches  are  painted  with  great  vigor  and  strength. 

This  artist's  picture  of  the  "  Queen  and  Ophelia  "  is  in 
a  much  higher  walk  of  art.  There  may  be  doubts  about 
Ophelia.  She  is  too  pretty  to  my  taste.  Her  dress  (es- 
pecially the  black  bands  round  her  arms)  too  elaborately 
conspicuous  and  coquettish.  The  queen  is  a  noble  dra- 
matic head  and  attitude.  Ophelia  seems  to  be  looking  at 
us,  the  audience,  and  in  a  pretty  attitude  expressly  to 
captivate  us.  The  queen  is  only  thinking  about  the 
crazed  girl,  and  Hamlet,  and  her  own  gloomy  affairs,  and 
has  quite  forgotten  her  own  noble  beauty  and  superb  pres- 
ence. The  color  of  the  picture  struck  me  as  quite  new, 


234  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

—  sedate,  but  bright  and  very  agreeable.  The  checkered 
light  and  shadow  is  made  cleverly  to  aid  in  forming  the 
composition,  —  it  is  very  picturesque  and  good.  It  is  by 
far  the  best  of  Mr.  Stone's  works,  and  in  the  best  line. 
Good  by,  Jenny  and  Jessamy ;  we  hope  never  to  see  you 
again,  —  no  more  rococo  rustics,  no  more  namby-pamby : 
the  man  who  can  paint  the  queen  of  Hamlet  must  forsake 
henceforth  such  fiddle-faddle  company. 

By  the  way,  has  any  Shakespearian  commentator  ever 
remarked  how  fond  the  queen  really  was  of  her  second 
husband,  the  excellent  Claudius?  How  courteous  and 
kind  the  latter  always  was  towards  her  ?  So  excellent  a 
family-man  ought  to  be  pardoned  a  few  errors  in  consid- 
eration of  his  admirable  behavior  to  his  wife.  He  did  go 
a  little  far,  certainly,  but  then  it  was  to  possess  a  jewel 
of  a  woman. 

More  pictures  indicating  a  fine  appreciation  of  the 
tragic  sentiment  are  to  be  found  in  the  Exliibition. 
Among  them  may  be  mentioned  specially  Mr.  Johnson's 
picture  of  "  Lord  Russell  taking  the  Communion  in  Prison 
before  Execution."  The  story  is  finely  told  here,  the 
group  large  and  noble.  The  figure  of  the  kneeling  wife, 
who  looks  at  her  husband,  meekly  engaged  in  the  last 
sacred  office,  is  very  good  indeed ;  and  the  little  episode 
of  the  jailer,  who  looks  out  into  the  yard  indifferent, 
seems  to  me  to  give  evidence  of  a  true  dramatic  genius. 
In  "  Hamlet,"  how  those  indifferent  remarks  of  Guilden- 
stern  and  Rosencrantz,  at  the  end,  bring  out  the  main 
figures  and  deepen  the  surrounding  gloom  of  the  tragedy! 

In  Mr.  Frith's  admirable  picture  of  the  "  Good  Pas- 
tor," from  Goldsmith,  there  is  some  sentiment  of  a  very 
quiet,  refined,  Sir-Roger-de-Co verley -like  sort,  —  not  too 
much  of  it, — it  is  indicated  rather  than  expressed.  "  Sen- 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  235 

timent,  sir,"  Walker  of  the  "  Original "  used  to  say,  — 
"  sentiment,  sir,  is  like  garlic  in  made  dishes :  it  should 
be  felt  everywhere  and  seen  nowhere." 

Now,  I  won't  say  that  Mr.  Frith's  sentiment  is  like 
garlic,  or  provoke  any  other  savory  comparison  regarding 
it ;  but  say,  in  a  word,  this  is  one  of  the  pictures  I  would 
like  to  have  sent  abroad  to  be  exhibited  at  a  European 
congress  of  painters,  to  show  what  an  English  artist  can 
do.  The  young  painter  seems  to  me  to  have  had  a 
thorough  comprehension  of  his  subject  and  his  own  abili- 
ties. And  what  a  rare  quality  is  this,  —  to  know  what  you 
can  do !  An  ass  will  go  and  take  the  grand  historic  walk, 
while,  with  lowly  wisdom,  Mr.  Frith  prefers  the  lowly 
path  where  there  are  plenty  of  flowers  growing,  and  chil- 
dren prattling  along  the  walks.  This  is  the  sort  of  pic- 
ture that  is  good  to  paint  now-a-days,  —  kindly,  beautiful, 
inspiring  delicate  sympathies,  and  awakening  tender  good- 
humor.  It  is  a  comfort  to  have  such  a  companion  as  that 
in  a  study  to  look  up  at  when  your  eyes  are  tired  with 
work,  and  to  refresh  you  with  its  gentle,  quiet  good-fel- 
lowship. I  can  see  it  now,  as  I  shut  my  own  eyes,  dis- 
played faithfully  on  the  camera-obscura  of  the  brain,  — 
the  dear  old  parson,  with  his  congregation  of  old  and 
young  clustered  round  him  ;  the  little  ones  plucking  him 
by  the  gown,  with  wondering  eyes,  half  roguery,  half  ter- 
ror ;  the  smoke  is  curling  up  from  the  cottage-chimneys,  in 
a  peaceful  Sabbath-sort  of  way ;  the  three  village  quid- 
nuncs are  chattering  together  at  the  churchyard  stile ; 
there  's  a  poor  girl  seated  there  on  a  stone,  who  has  been 
crossed  in  love  evidently,  and  looks  anxiously  to  the  par- 
son for  a  little  doubtful  consolation.  That 's  the  real  sort 
of  sentiment, —  there  's  no  need  of  a  great,  clumsy,  black- 
edged  letter  to  placard  her  misery,  as  it  were,  after  Mr. 


236  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

Redgrave's  fashion.  The  sentiment  is  only  the  more  sin- 
cere for  being  unobtrusive ;  and  the  spectator  gives  his 
compassion  the  more  readily,  because  the  unfortunate  ob- 
ject makes  no  coarse  demands  upon  his  pity. 

The  painting  of  this  picture  is  exceedingly  clever  and 
dexterous.  One  or  two  of  the  foremost  figures  are  painted 
with  the  breadth  and  pearly  delicacy  of  Greuze.  The 
three  village  politicians,  in  the  background,  might  have 
been  touched  by  Teniers,  so  neat,  brisk,  and  sharp  is  the 
execution  of  the  artist's  facile  brush. 

Mr.  Frost  (a  new  name,  I  think,  in  the  Catalogue)  has 
given  us  a  picture  of  "  Sabrina,"  which  is  so  pretty  that  I 
heartily  hope  it  has  not  been  purchased  for  the  collection 
from  u  Comus,"  which  adorns  the  Buckingham  Palace  sum- 
merhouse.  It  is  worthy  of  a  better  place  and  price  than 
our  royal  patrons  appear  to  be  disposed  to  give  for  the 
works  of  English  artists.  What  victims  have  those  poor 
fellows  been  of  this  awful  patronage  !  Great  has  been 
the  commotion  in  the  pictorial  world,  dear  Augusto,  re- 
garding the  fate  of  those  frescos  which  royalty  was 
pleased  to  order,  which  it  condescended  to  purchase  at  a 
price  that  no  poor  amateur  would  have  the  face  to  offer. 
Think  of  the  greatest  patronage  in  the  world  giving  forty 
pounds  for  pictures  worth  four  hundred,  —  condescending 
to  buy  works  from  humble  men  who  could  not  refuse,  and 
paying  for  them  below  their  value  !  Think  of  august 
powers  and  principalities  ordering  the  works  of  such  a 
great  man  as  Etty  to  be  hacked  out  of  the  palace-wall ! 
That  was  a  slap  in  the  face  to  every  artist  in  England ; 
and  I  can  agree  with  the  conclusion  come  to  by  an  indig- 
nant poet  of  Punch's  band,  who  says,  for  his  part,  — 

"  I  will  not  toil  for  queen  and  crown, 
If  princely  patrons  spurn  me  down  ; 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  237 

I  will  not  ask  for  royal  job,  — 
Let  my  Maecenas  be  A  SNOB  !  " 

This  is,  however,  a  delicate,  an  awful  subject,  over  which 
loyal  subjects  like  you  and  I  had  best  mourn  in  silence : 
but  the  fate  of  Etty's  noble  picture  of  last  year  made  me 
tremble  lest  Frost  should  be  similarly  nipped ;  and  I  hope 
more  genuine  patronage  for  this  promising  young  painter. 
His  picture  is  like  a  mixture  of  very  good  Hilton  and 
Howard,  raised  to  a  state  of  genius.  There  is  sameness 
in  the  heads,  but  great  grace  and  beauty,  —  a  fine  sweep- 
ing movement  in  the  composition  of  the  beautiful  fairy 
figures,  undulating  gracefully  through  the  stream,  while 
the  lilies  lie  gracefully  overhead.  There  is  another  sub- 
marine picture  of  "  Nymphs  cajoling  Young  Hylas," 
which  contains  a  great  deal  of  very  clever  imitations  of 
Boucher. 

That  youthful  Goodall,  whose  early  attempts  promised 
so  much,  is  not  quite  realizing  those  promises,  I  think,  and 
is  cajoled,  like  Hylas  before  mentioned,  by  dangerous 
beauty.  His  "  Connemara  Girls  going  to  Market "  are  a 
vast  deal  too  clean  and  pretty  for  such  females.  They 
laugh  and  simper  in  much  too  genteel  a  manner  ;  they 
are  washing  such  pretty  white  feet  as  I  don't  think  are 
common  about  Leenane  or  Ballynalinch,  and  would  be 
better  at  ease  in  white  satin  slippers  than  trudging  up 
Croaghpatrick.  There  is  a  luxury  of  geographical  knowl- 
edge for  you !  I  have  not  done  with  it  yet.  Stop  till  we 
come  to  Roberts's  "  View  of  Jerusalem,"  and  Muller's  pic- 
tures of  "  Rhodes,"  and  "  Xanthus,"  and  "  Telmessus." 
This  artist's  sketches  are  excellent,  —  like  nature,  and  like 
Decamps,  that  best  of  painters  of  Oriental  life  and  colors. 
In  the  pictures,  the  artist  forgets  the  brilliancy  of  color 
which  is  so  conspicuous  in  his  sketches,  and  "  Telmessus  " 
looks  as  gray  and  heavy  as  Dover  in  March. 


238  PICTURE   GOSSIP. 

Mr.  Pickersgill  (not  the  Academician,  by  any  means) 
deserves  great  praise  for  two  very  poetical  pieces ;  one 
from  Spenser,  I  think  (Sir  Botibol,  let  us  say,  as  before, 
with  somebody  in  some  hag's  cave)  ;  another  called  the 
"  Four  Ages,"  which  has  still  better  grace  and  sentiment. 
This  artist,  too,  is  evidently  one  of  the  disciples  of  Hil- 
ton ;  and  another,  who  has,  also,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
studied  with  advantage  that  graceful  and  agreeable  Eng- 
lish painter,  Mr.  Hook,  whose  "  Song  of  the  Olden 
Time  "  is  hung  up  in  the  Octagon  Closet,  and  makes  a 
sunshine  in  that  exceedingly  shady  place.  The  female 
figure  is  faulty,  but  charming  (many  charmers  have  their 
little  faults,  it  is  said)  ;  the  old  bard  who  is  singing  the 
song  of  the  olden  time,  a  most  venerable,  agreeable,  and 
handsome  old  minstrel.  In  Alnaschar-like  moods  a  man 
fancies  himself  a  noble  patron,  and  munificent  rewarder 
of  artists ;  in  which  case  I  should  like  to  possess  myself 
of  the  works  of  these  two  young  men,  and  give  them 

four  times  as  large  a  price  as  the gave  for  pictures 

five  times  as  good  as  theirs. 

I  suppose  Mr.  Eastlake's  composition  from  u  Comus  "  is 
the  contribution  in  which  he  has  been  mulcted,  in  com- 
pany with  his  celebrated  brother  artists,  for  the  famous 
Buckingham  Palace  pavilion.  Working  for  nothing  is 
very  well ;  but  to  work  for  a  good,  honest,  remunerating 
price  is,  perhaps,  the  best  way,  after  all.  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  the  artist's  courage  has  failed  him  over  his 
"  Comus  "  picture.  Time  and  pains  he  has  given,  that  is 
quite  evident.  The  picture  is  prodigiously  labored,  and 
hatched,  and  tickled  up  with  a  Chinese  minuteness ;  but 
there  is  a  woful  lack  of  vis  in  the  work.  That  poor  la- 
borer has  kept  his  promise,  has  worked  the  given  num- 
ber of  hours ;  but  he  has  had  no  food  all  the  while,  and 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  239 

has  executed  his  job  in  a  somewhat  faint  manner.  This 
face  of  the  lady  is  pure  and  beautiful ;  but  we  have  seen 
it  at  any  time  these  ten  years,  with  its  red  transparent 
shadows,  its  mouth  in  which  butter  would  n't  melt,  and  its 
beautiful  brown  madder  hair.  She  is  getting  rather  tedi- 
ous, that  sweet,  irreproachable  creature,  that  is  the  fact. 
She  may  be  an  angel ;  but  sky-blue,  my  wicked  senses 
tell  me,  is  a  feeble  sort  of  drink,  and  men  require  strong- 
er nourishment. 

Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  is  a  prim,  mystic,  cruciform 
composition.  The  lady  languishes  in  the  middle ;  an  an- 
gel is  consoling  her,  and  embracing  her  with  an  arm  out 
of  joint ;  little  rows  of  cherubs  stand  on  each  side  the 
angels  and  the  lady,  —  wonderful  little  children,  with 
blue  or  brown  beady  eyes,  and  sweet  little  flossy  curly 
hair,  and  no  muscles  or  bones,  as  becomes  such  super- 
natural beings,  no  doubt.  I  have  seen  similar  little  dar- 
lings in  the  toy-shops  in  the  Lowther  Arcade  for  a  shil- 
ling, with  just  such  pink  cheeks  and  round  eyes,  their 
bodies  formed  out  of  cotton  wool,  and  their  extremities 
veiled  in  silver  paper.  Well ;  it  is  as  well,  perhaps,  that 
Etty's  jovial  nymphs  should  not  come  into  such  a  com- 
pany. Good  Lord !  how  they  would  astonish  the  weak 
nerves  of  Mr.  Eastlake's  precieuse  young  lady ! 

Quite  unabashed  by  the  squeamishness  exhibited  in  the 
highest  quarter  (as  the  newspapers  call  it),  Mr.  Etty 
goes  on  rejoicing  in  his  old  fashion.  Perhaps  he  is  worse 
than  ever  this  year,  and  despises  nee  dulces  amores  nee 
chortzas,  because  certain  great  personages  are  offended. 
Perhaps,  this  year,  his  ladies  and  Cupids  are  a  little  ha- 
zardes ;  his  Venuses  expand  more  than  ever  in  the  line 
of  Hottentot  beauty ;  his  drawing  and  coloring  are  still 
more  audacious  than  they  were ;  patches  of  red  shine  on 


240  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

the  cheeks  of  his  blowsy  nymphs ;  his  idea  of  form  goes 
to  the  verge  of  monstrosity.  If  you  look  at  the  pictures 
closely  (and,  considering  all  things,  it  requires  some  cour- 
age to  do  so),  the  forms  disappear;  feet  and  hands  are 
scumbled  away,  and  distances  appear  to  be  dabs  and 
blotches  of  lakes,  and  brown,  and  ultramarine.  It  must 
be  confessed,  that  some  of  these  pictures  would  not  be 
suitable  to  hang  up  everywhere,  —  in  a  young  ladies' 
school,  for  instance.  But  how  rich  and  superb  is  the 
color!  Did  Titian  paint  better,  or  Rubens  as  well? 
There  is  a  nymph  and  child  in  the  left  corner  of  the 
Great  Room,  sitting,  without  the  slightest  fear  of  catch- 
ing cold,  in  a  sort  of  moonlight,  of  which  the  color  ap- 
pears to  me  to  be  as  rich  and  wonderful  as  Titian's  best, 
—  "  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  for  instance,  —  and  better 
than  Rubens's.  There  is  a  little  head  of  a  boy  in  a  blue 
dress  (for  once  in  a  way)  which  kills  every  picture  in  the 
room,  out-stares  all  the  red-coated  generals,  out-blazes 
Mrs.  Thwaites  and  her  diamonds  (who  has  the  place  of 
honor)  ;  and  has  that  unmistakable,  inestimable,  inde- 
scribable mark  of  the  GREAT  painter  about  it,  which 
makes  the  soul  of  a  man  kindle  up  as  he  sees  it,  and 
own  that  there  is  Genius.  How  delightful  it  is  to  feel 
that  shock,  and  how  few  are  the  works  of  art  that  can 
give  it ! 

The  author  of  that  sibylline  book  of  mystic  rhymes, 
the  unrevealed  bard  of  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope,"  is  as  great 
as  usual,  vibrating  between  the  absurd  and  the  sublime, 
until  the  eye  grows  dazzled  in  watching  him,  and  can't 
really  tell  in  what  region  he  is.  If  Etty's  color  is  wild 
and  mysterious,  looking  here  as  if  smeared  with  the  fin- 
ger, and  there  with  the  palette-knife,  what  can  be  said 
about  Turner  ?  Go  up  and  look  at  one  of  his  pictures, 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  241 

and  you  laugh  at  yourself  and  at  him,  and  at  the  picture, 
and  that  wonderful  amateur  who  is  invariably  found  to 
give  a  thousand  pounds  for  it,  or  more,  —  some  sum  wild, 
prodigious,  unheard-of,  monstrous,  like  the  picture  itself. 
All  about  the  author  of  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope  "  is  a  mys- 
terious extravaganza  ;  price,  poem,  purchaser,  picture. 
Look  at  the  latter  for  a  little  time,  and  it  begins  to  affect 
you  too,  —  to  mesmerize  you.  It  is  revealed  to  you  ; 
and,  as  it  is  said  in  the  East,  the  magicians  make  children 
see  the  sultauns,  carpet-bearers,  tents,  &c.,  in  a  spot  of 
ink  in  their  hands  ;  so  the  magician,  Joseph  Mallard, 
makes  you  see  what  he  likes  on  a  board,  that  to  the  first 
view  is  merely  dabbed  over  with  occasional  streaks  of 
yellow,  and  flecked  here  and  there  with  vermilion.  The 
vermilion  blotches  become  little  boats  full  of  harpooners 
and  gondolas,  with  a  deal  of  music  going  on  on  board. 
That  is  not  a  smear  of  purple  you  see  yonder,  but  a  beau- 
tiful whale,  whose  tail  has  just  slapped  a  half-dozen  whale- 
boats  into  perdition ;  and  as  for  what  you  fancied  to  be  a 
few  zigzag  lines  spattered  on  the  canvas  at  hap-hazard, 
look !  they  turn  out  to  be  a  ship  with  all  her  sails  ;  the 
captain  and  his  crew  are  clearly  visible  in  the  ship's 
bows  ;  and  you  may  distinctly  see  the  oil-casks  getting 
ready  under  the  superintendence  of  that  man  with  the 
red  whiskers  and  the  cast  in  his  eye ;  who  is,  of  course, 
the  chief  mate.  In  a  word,  I  say  that  Turner  is  a  great 
and  awful  mystery  to  me.  I  don't  like  to  contemplate 
him  too  much,  lest  I  should  actually  begin  to  believe  in 
his  poetry  as  well  as  his  paintings,  and  fancy  the  "  Falla- 
cies of  Hope  "  to  be  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  world. 
Now  Stanfield  has  no  mysticism  or  oracularity  about 
him.  You  can  see  what  he  means  at  once.  His  style  is 
as  simple  and  manly  as  a  seaman's  song.  One  of  the 
11  p 


242  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

most  dexterous,  he  is  also  one  of  the  most  careful  of 
painters.  Every  year  his  works  are  more  elaborated, 
and  you  are  surprised  to  find  a  progress  in  an  artist  who 
had  seemed  to  reach  his  acme  before.  His  battle  of  frig- 
ates this  year  is  a  brilliant,  sparkling  pageant  of  naval 
war.  His  great  picture  of  the  "  Mole  of  Ancona,"  fresh, 
healthy,  and  bright  as  breeze  and  sea  can  make  it. 
There  'are  better  pieces  still  by  this  painter,  to  my  mind ; 
one  in  the  first  room,  especially,  —  a  Dutch  landscape, 
with  a  warm,  sunny  tone  upon  it,  worthy  of  Cuyp  and 
Callcott.  Who  is  G.  Stanfield,  an  exhibitor  and  evidently 
a  pupil  of  the  Royal  Academician  ?  Can  it  be  a  son  of 
that  gent?  If  so,  the  father  has  a  worthy  heir  to  his 
name  and  honors.  G.  Stanfield's  Dutch  picture  may  be 
looked  at  by  the  side  of  his  father's. 

Roberts  has  also  distinguished  himself  and  advanced 
in  skill,  great  as  his  care  had  been  and  powerful  his  ef- 
fects before.  "  The  Ruins  of  Karnac  "  is  the  most  poeti- 
cal of  this  painter's  works,  I  think.  A  vast  and  awful 
scene  of  gloomy  Egyptian  ruin !  The  sun  lights  up  tre- 
mendous lines  of  edifices,  which  were  only  parts  formerly 
of  the  enormous  city  of  the  hundred  gates ;  long  lines  of 
camels  come  over  the  reddening  desert,  and  camps  are 
set  by  the  side  of  the  glowing  pools.  This  is  a  good  pic- 
ture to  gaze  at,  and  to  fill  your  eyes  and  thoughts  with 
grandiose  ideas  of  Eastern  life. 

This  gentleman's  large  picture  of  "  Jerusalem  "  did  not 
satisfy  me  so  much.  It  is  yet  very  faithful.  Anybody 
who  had  visited  this  place  must  see  the  careful  fidelity 
with  which  the  artist  has  mapped  the  rocks  and  valleys, 
and  laid  down  the  lines  of  the  buildings ;  but  the  picture 
has,  to  my  eyes,  too  green  and  trim  a  look ;  the  mosques 
and  houses  look  fresh  and  new,  instead  of  being  moulder- 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  243 

ing,  old,  sun-baked  edifices  of  glaring  stone  rising  amidst 
wretchedness  and  ruin.  There  is  not,  to  my  mind,  that 
sad,  fatal  aspect,  which  the  city  presents  from  whatever 
quarter  you  view  it,  and  which  haunts  a  man  who  has 
seen  it  ever  after  with  an  impression  of  terror.  Perhaps 
in  the  spring  for  a  little  while,  at  which  season  the  sketch 
for  this  picture  was  painted,  the  country  round  about  may 
look  very  cheerful.  "When  we  saw  it  in  autumn,  the 
mountains  that  stand  round  about  Jerusalem  were  not 
green,  but  ghastly  piles  of  hot  rock,  patched  here  and 
there  with  yellow,  weedy  herbage.  A  cactus  or  a  few 
bleak  olive-trees  made  up  the  vegetation  of  the  wretched, 
gloomy  landscape ;  whereas,  in  Mr.  Roberts's  picture,  the 
valley  of  Jehoshaphat  looks  like  a  glade  in  a  park,  and 
the  hills,  up  to  the  gates,  are  carpeted  with  verdure. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  Jerusalem,  here  may  be  men- 
tioned with  praise  Mr.  Hart's  picture  of  a  Jewish  cere- 
mony, with  a  Hebrew  name  I  have  forgotten.  This 
piece  is  exceedingly  bright  and  pleasing  in  color,  odd  and 
novel  as  a  representation  of  manners  and  costume,  —  a 
striking  and  agreeable  picture.  I  don't  think  as  much 
can  be  said  for  the  same  artist's  "  Sir  Thomas  More  go- 
ing to  Execution."  Miss  More  is  crying  on  papa's  neck, 
pa  looks  up  to  heaven,  halberdiers  look  fierce,  &c. :  all 
the  regular  adjuncts  and  property  of  pictorical  tragedy 
are  here  brought  into  play.  But  nobody  cares,  that  is 
the  fact;  and  one  fancies  the  designer  himself  cannot 
have  cared  much  for  the  orthodox  historical  group  whose 
misfortunes  he  was  depicting. 

These  pictures  are  like  boy's  hexameters  at  school. 
Every  lad  of  decent  parts  in  the  sixth  form  has  a  knack 
of  turning  out  great  quantities  of  respectable  verse,  with- 
out blunders,  and  with  scarce  any  mental  labor;  but 


244  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

these  verses  are  not  the  least  like  poetry,  any  more  than 
the  great  Academical  paintings  of  the  artists  are  like  great 
painting.  You  want  something  more  than  a  composition, 
and  a  set  of  costumes  and  figures  decently  posed  and 
studied.  If  these  were  all,  for  instance,  Mr.  Charles  Land- 
seer's  picture  of  "  Charles  I.  before  the  Battle  of  Edge 
Hill,"  would  be  a  good  work  of  art.  Charles  stands  at  a 
tree  before  the  inn  door,  officers  are  round  about,  the  lit- 
tle princes  are  playing  with  a  little  dog,  as  becomes  their 
youth  and  innocence,  rows  of  soldiers  appear  in  red  coats, 
nobody  seems  to  have  anything  particular  to  do,  except 
the  royal  martyr,  who  is  looking  at  a  bone  of  ham  that  a 
girl  out  of  the  inn  has  hold  of. 

Now  this  is  all  very  well,  but  you  want  something 
more  than  this  in  an  historic  picture,  which  should  have 
its  parts,  characters,  varieties,  and  climax,  like  a  drama. 
You  don't  want  the  Deus  intersit  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  look  at  a  knuckle  of  ham ;  and  here  is  a  piece 
well  composed,  and  (bating  a  little  want  of  life  in  the 
figures)  well  drawn,  brightly  and  pleasantly  painted,  as 
all  this  artist's  works  are,  all  the  parts  and  accessories 
studied  and  executed  with  care  and  skill,  and  yet  mean- 
ing nothing,  —  the  part  of  Hamlet  omitted.  The  king 
in  this  attitude  (with  the  baton  in  his  hand,  simpering  at 
the  bacon  aforesaid)  has  no  more  of  the  heroic  in  him 
than  the  pork  he  contemplates,  and  he  deserves  to  lose 
every  battle  he  fights.  I  prefer  the  artist's  other  still- 
life  pictures  to  this.  He  has  a  couple  more,  professed- 
ly so  called,  very  cleverly  executed,  and  capital  cabinet 
pieces. 

Strange  to  say,  I  have  not  one  picture  to  remark  upon 
taken  from  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  Mr.  Ward  has  a 
very  good  Hogarthian  work,  with  some  little  extrava- 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  245 

gance  and  caricature,  representing  Johnson  waiting  in 
Lord  Chesterfield's  ante-chamber,  among  a  crowd  of 
hangers-on  and  petitioners,  who  are  sulky,  or  yawning,  or 
neglected,  while  a  pretty  Italian  singer  comes  out,  having 
evidently  had  a  very  satisfactory  interview  with  his  lord- 
ship, and  who  (to  lose  no  time)  is  arranging  another  ren- 
dezvous with  another  admirer.  This  story  is  very  well, 
coarsely,  and  humorously  told,  and  is  as  racy  as  a  chap- 
ter out  of  Smollett.  There  is  a  yawning  chaplain,  whose 
head  is  full  of  humor ;  and  a  pathetic  episode  of  a  widow 
and  pretty  child,  in  which  the  artist  has  not  succeeded  so 
well. 

There  is  great  delicacy  and  beauty  in  Mr.  Herbert's 
picture  of  "Pope  Gregory  teaching  Children  to  Sing." 
His  Holiness  lies  on  his  sofa,  languidly  beating  time  over 
his  book.  He  does  not  look  strong  enough  to  use  the 
scourge  in  his  hands,  and  with  which  the  painter  says  he 
used  to  correct  his  little  choristers.  Two  ghostly  aides- 
de-camp  in  the  shape  of  worn,  handsome,  shaven  ascetic 
friars,  stand  behind  the  pontiff  demurely;  and  all  the 
choristers  are  in  full  song,  with  their  mouths  as  wide 
open  as  a  nest  of  young  birds  when  the  mother  comes. 
The  painter  seems  to  me  to  have  acquired  the  true 
spirit  of  the  Middle- Age  devotion.  All  his  works  have 
unction  ;  and  the  prim,  subdued,  ascetic  race,  which  forms 
the  charm  and  mystery  of  the  missal-illuminations,  and 
which  has  operated  to  convert  some  imaginative  minds 
from  the  new  to  the  old  faith. 

And,  by  way  of  a  wonder,  behold  a  devotional  picture 
from  Mr.  Edwin  Landseer,  "  A  Shepherd  Praying  at  a 
Cross  in  the  Fields."  I  suppose  the  Sabbath  church- 
bells  are  ringing  from  the  city  far  away  in  the  plain.  Do 
you  remember  the  beautiful  lines  of  Uhland  ? 


246  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

"  Es  ist  der  tag  des  Herrn 
Ich  bin  allein  auf  weitern  Flur 
Noch  eine  Morgen-glocke  nur 
Uud  stille  nah  und  fern. 

"  Anbetend  knie  ich  hier 
0  susses  Graun  geheimes  Wehn 
Als  knieten  viele  Ungesehn 
Und  beteten  mit  mir." 

Here  is  a  noble  and  touching  pictorial  illustration  of 
them,  —  of  Sabbath  repose  and  recueillement,  —  an  almost 
endless  flock  of  sheep  lies  around  the  pious  pastor ;  the 
sun  shines  peacefully  over  the  vast  fertile  plain;  blue 
mountains  keep  watch  in  the  distance ;  and  the  sky  above 
is  serenely  clear.  I  think  this  is  the  highest  flight  of  po- 
etry the  painter  has  dared  to  take  yet.  The  numbers 
and  variety  of  attitude  and  expression  in  that  flock  of 
sheep  quite  startle  the  spectator  as  he  examines  them. 
The  picture  is  a  wonder  of  skill. 

How  richly  the  good  pictures  cluster  at  this  end  of  the 
room !  There  is  a  little  Mulready,  of  which  the  color 
blazes  out  like  sapphires  and  rubies ;  a  pair  of  Leslies, — 
one  called  the  "  Heiress,"  —  one  a  scene  from  Moliere,  — 
both  delightful:  these  are  flanked  by  the  magnificent 
nymphs  of  Etty,  before  mentioned.  What  school  of  art 
in  Europe,  or  what  age,  can  show  better  painters  than 
these  in  their  various  lines  ?  The  young  men  do  well, 
but  the  elders  do  best  still.  No  wonder  the  English  pic- 
tures are  fetching  their  thousands  of  guineas  at  the  sales. 
They  deserve  these  great  prices  as  well  as  the  best  works 
of  the  Hollanders. 

I  am  sure  that  three  such  pictures  as  Mr.  Webster's 
"  Dame's  School "  ought  to  entitle  the  proprietor  to  pay 
the  income-tax.  There  is  a  little  caricature  in  some  of 
the  children's  faces,  but  the  schoolmistress  is  a  perfect 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  247 

figure,  most  admirably  natural,  humorous,  and  sentimen- 
tal. The  picture  is  beautifully  painted,  —  full  of  air,  of 
delightful  harmony  and  tone. 

There  are  works  by  Creswick  that  can  hardly  be  praised 
too  much.  One  particularly,  called  u  A  Place  to  be  Re- 
membered," which  no  lover  of  pictures  can  see  and  forget. 
Danby's  great  "  Evening  Scene  "  has  portions  which  are 
not  surpassed  by  Cuyp  or  Claude  ;  and  a  noble  landscape 
of  Lee's,  among  several  others,  —  a  height,  with  some 
trees  and  a  great  expanse  of  country  beneath. 

From  the  fine  pictures  you  come  to  the  class  which  are 
very  nearly  being  fine  pictures.  In  this  I  would  enume- 
rate a  landscape  or  two  by  Collins.  Mr.  Leigh's  "  Poly- 
phemus," of  which  the  landscape  part  is  very  good,  and 
only  the  figure  questionable ;  and,  let  us  say,  Mr.  Elmore's 
"  Origin  of  the  Guelf  and  Ghibelline  Factions,"  which 
contains  excellent  passages,  and  admirable  drawing  and 
dexterity,  but  fails  to  strike  as  a  whole  somehow.  There 
is  not  sufficient  purpose  in  it,  or  the  story  is  not  enough 
to  interest,  or,  though  the  parts  are  excellent,  the  whole 
is  somewhere  deficient. 

There  is  very  little  comedy  in  the  Exhibition,  most  of 
the  young  artists  tending  to  the  sentimental  rather  than 
the  ludicrous.  Leslie's  scene  from  Moliere  is  the  best 
comedy.  Collins's  "  Fetching  the  Doctor "  is  also  de- 
lightful fun.  The  greatest  farce,  however,  is  Chalon's 
picture  with  an  Italian  title,  "  B.  Virgine  col,"  &c.  Im- 
pudence never  went  beyond  this.  The  infant's  hair  has 
been  curled  into  ringlets,  the  mother  sits  on  her  chair 
with  painted  cheeks  and  a  Haymarket  leer.  The  picture 
might  serve  for  the  oratory  of  an  opera  girl. 

Among  the  portraits,  Knight's  and  Watson  Gordon's 
are  the  best.  A  "  Mr.  Pigeon  "  by  the  former  hangs  in 


248  PICTURE  GOSSIP. 

the  place  of  honor  usually  devoted  to  our  gracious  Prince, 
and  is  a  fine  rich  state  picture.  Even  better  are  there 
by  Mr.  Watson  Gordon  :  one  representing  a  gentleman 
in  black  silk  stockings,  whose  name  has  escaped  the  mem- 
ory of  your  humble  servant ;  another,  a  fine  portrait  of 
Mr.  De  Quincey,  the  opium-eater.  Mr.  Lawrence's  heads, 
solemn  and  solidly  painted,  look  out  at  you  from  their 
frames,  though  they  be  ever  so  high  placed,  and  push  out 
of  sight  the  works  of  more  flimsy  but  successful  practi- 
tioners. A  portrait  of  great  power  and  richness  of  color  is 
that  of  Mr.  Lopez,  by  Linnell.  Mr.  Grant  is  the  favorite ; 
but  a  very  unsound  painter,  to  my  mind,  —  painting  like  a 
brilliant  and  graceful  amateur  rather  than  a  serious  artist. 
But  there  is  a  quiet  refinement  and  beauty  about  his  fe- 
male heads,  which  no  other  painter  can  perhaps  give,  and 
charms  in  spite  of  many  errors.  Is  it  Count  D'Orsay,  or 
is  it  Mr.  Ainsworth,  that  the  former  has  painted?  Two 
peas  are  not  more  alike  than  these  two  illustrious  char- 
acters. 

In  the  miniature-room,  Mr.  Richmond's  drawings  are 
of  so  grand  and  noble  a  character,  that  they  fill  the  eye 
as  much  as  full-length  canvases.  Nothing  can  be  finer 
than  Mrs.  Fry  and  the  gray-haired  lady  in  black  velvet. 
There  is  a  certain  severe,  respectable,  Exeter-Hall  look 
about  most  of  this  artist's  pictures,  that  the  observer  may 
compare  with  the  Catholic  physiognomies  of  Mr.  Herbert : 
see  his  picture  of  Mr.  Pugin,  for  instance ;  it  tells  of 
chants  and  cathedrals,  as  Mr.  Richmond's  work  somehow 
does  of  Clapham  Common  and  the  May  meetings.  The 
genius  of  May  Fair  fires  the  bosom  of  Chalon,  the  tea 
party,  the  quadrille,  the  hair-dresser,  the  tailor,  and  the 
flunky.  All  Ross's  miniatures  sparkle  with  his  wonder- 
ful and  minute  skill ;  Carrick's  are  excellent ;  Thorburn's 


PICTURE  GOSSIP.  249 

almost  take  the  rank  of  historical  pictures.  In  his  picture 
of  two  sisters,  one  has  almost  the  most  beautiful  head  in 
the  world  ;  and  his  picture  of  Prince  Albert,  clothed  in 
red  and  leaning  on  a  turquoise  sabre,  has  ennobled  that 
fine  head,  and  given  his  royal  highness's  pale  features  an 
air  of  sunburnt  and  warlike  vigor.  Miss  Corbaux,  too, 
has  painted  one  of  the  loveliest  heads  ever  seen.  Perhaps 
this  is  the  pleasantest  room  of  the  whole,  for  you  are  sure 
to  meet  your  friends  here  ;  kind  faces  smile  at  you  from 

the  ivory ;  and  features  of  fair  creatures,  O,  how    *    * 

*  *  #  *  * 

Here  the  eccentric  author  breaks  into  a  rhapsody  of 
thirteen  pages  regarding  No.  2576,  Mrs.  Major  Blogg, 
who  was  formerly  Miss  Poddy  of  Cheltenham,  whom  it 
appears  that  Michael  Angelo  knew  and  admired.  The 
feelings  of  the  Poddy  family  might  be  hurt,  and  the  jeal- 
ousy of  Major  Blogg  aroused,  were  we  to  print  Titmarsh's 
rapturous  description  of  that  lady ;  nor,  indeed,  can  we 
give  him  any  further  space.  He  concludes  by  a  wither- 
ing denunciation  of  most  of  the  statues,  in  the  vault  where 
they  are  buried  ;  praising,  however,  the  children,  Paul 
and  Virginia,  the  head  of  Bayly's  nymph,  and  M'Dowall's 
boy.  He  remarks  the  honest  character  of  the  English 
countenance  as  exhibited  in  the  busts,  and  contrasts  it 
with  Louis  Philippe's  head  by  Jones,  on  whom,  both  as  a 
sculptor  and  a  singer,  he  bestows  great  praise.  He  in- 
dignantly remonstrates  with  the  committee  for  putting  by 
far  the  finest  female  bust  in  the  room,  No.  1434,  by  Pow- 
ers of  Florence,  in  a  situation  where  it  cannot  be  seen  ; 
and,  quitting  the  gallery  finally,  says  he  must  go  before 
he  leaves  town  and  give  one  more  look  at  Hunt's  "  Boy 
at  Prayers,"  in  the  Water- Color  Exhibition,  which  he 
pronounces  to  be  the  finest  serious  work  of  the  year. 
11* 


THE  ANONYMOUS   IN   PERIODICAL 
LITERATURE. 


Y  rising  young  friend  HITCHINGS,  the  author 
of  "  Randolph  the  Robber,"  "  The  Murderers 
of  May  Fair,"  and  other  romances,  and  one 
of  the  chief  writers  in  the  Lictor  newspaper, 
—  a  highly  liberal,  nay,  seven-leagued  boots  progressional 
journal,  —  was  discoursing  with  the  writer  of  the  present 
lines  upon  the  queer  decision  to  which  the  French  As- 
sembly has  come,  and  which  enforces  a  signature  hence- 
forth to  all  the  leading  articles  in  the  French  papers.  As 
an  act  of  government,  Hitchings  said  he  thought  the 
measure  most  absurd  and  tyrannous,  but  he  was  not  sorry 
for  it,  as  it  would  infallibly  increase  the  importance  of 
the  profession  of  letters,  to  which  we  both  belonged. 
The  man  of  letters  will  no  longer  be  the  anonymous 
slave  of  the  newspaper-press  proprietor,  Hitchings  said ; 
the  man  of  letters  will  no  longer  be  used  and  flung  aside 
in  his  old  days;  he  will  be  rewarded  according  to  his 
merits,  and  have  the  chance  of  making  himself  a  name. 
And  then  Hitchings  spoke  with  great  fervor  regarding 
the  depressed  condition  of  literary  men,  and  said  the 
time  was  coming  when  their  merits  would  get  them  their 
own. 

On  this   latter  subject,  which  is  a  favorite  one  with 


THE  ANONYMOUS  IN  PERIODICAL  LITERATURE.  251 

many  gentlemen  of  our  profession,  I,  for  one,  am  confess- 
edly incredulous.  I  am  resolved  not  to  consider  myself 
a  martyr.  I  never  knew  a  man  who  had  written  a  good 
book  (unless,  indeed,  it  were  a  Barrister  with  Attorneys) 
hurt  his  position  in  society  by  having  done  so.  On  the 
contrary,  a  clever  writer,  with  decent  manners  asd  con- 
duct, makes  more  friends  than  any  other  man.  And  I  do 
not  believe  (parenthetically)  that  it  will  make  much  dif- 
ference to  my  friend  Hitchings  whether  his  name  is  af- 
fixed to  one,  twenty,  or  two  thousand  articles  of  his  com- 
position. But  what  would  happen  in  England  if  such  a 
regulation  as  that  just  passed  in  France  were  to  become 
law ;  and  the  House  of  Commons  omnipotent,  —  which 
can  shut  up  our  parks  for  us,  which  can  shut  up  our 
post-office  for  us,  which  can  do  anything  it  will,  —  should 
take  a  fancy  to  have  the  signature  of  every  writer  of  a 
newspaper  article? 

Have  they  got  any  secret  ledger  at  the  "  Times,"  in 
which  the  names  of  the  writers  of  all  the  articles  in  that 
journal  are  written  down  ?  That  would  be  a  curious 
book  to  see.  Articles  in  that  paper  have  been  attributed 
to  every  great  man  of  the  day.  At  one  time  it  was  said 
Brougham  wrote  regularly;  at  another,  Canning  was  a 
known  contributor  ;  at  some  other  time,  it  was  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  Lord  Aberdeen.  It  would  be  curious  to  see  the 
real  names.  The  Chancellor's  or  the  Foreign  Secreta- 
ry's articles  would  most  likely  turn  out  to  be  written  by 
Jones  or  Smith.  I  mean  no  disrespect  to  the  latter,  but 
the  contrary,  —  to  be  a  writer  for  a  newspaper  requires 
more  knowledge,  genius,  readiness,  scholarship,  than  you 
want  in  Saint  Stephen's.  Compare  a  good  leading  arti- 
cle and  a  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons :  compare  a 
House  of  Commons  orator  with  a  writer,  psha ! 


252    THE  ANONYMOUS  IN  PERIODICAL  LITERATURE. 

Would  Jones  or  Smith,  however,  much  profit  by  the 
publication  of  their  names  to  their  articles?  That  is 
doubtful.  When  the  Chronicle  or  the  Times  speaks  now, 
it  is  "  we  "  who  are  speaking,  —  we  the  Liberal  Conserva- 
tives, we  the  Conservative  Sceptics ;  when  Jones  signs 
the  article  it  is  we  no  more,  but  Jones.  It  goes  to  the 
public  with  no  authority.  The  public  does  not  care  very 
much  what  Jones's  opinions  are.  They  don't  purchase 
the  Jones  organ  any  more,  —  the  paper  droops ;  and,  in 
fact,  I  can  conceive  nothing  more  wearisome  than  to  see 
the  names  of  Smith,  Brown,  Jones,  Robinson,  and  so 
forth,  written  in  capitals  every  day,  day  after  day,  under 
the  various  articles  of  the  paper.  The  public  would  be- 
gin to  cry  out  at  the  poverty  of  the  literary  dramatis 
persona.  We  have  had  Brown  twelve  times  this  month 
it  would  say.  That  Robinson's  name  is  always  coming 
up.  As  soon  as  there  is  a  finance  question,  or  a  foreign 
question,  or  what  not,  it  is  Smith  who  signs  the  article. 
Give  us  somebody  else. 

Thus  Brown  and  Robinson  would  get  a  doubtful  and 
precarious  bread  instead  of  the  comfortable  and  regular 
engagement  which  they  now  have.  The  paper  would 
not  be  what  it  is.  It  would  be  impossible  to  employ  men 
on  trial,  and  see  what  their  talents  were  worth.  Occa- 
sion is  half  a  public  writer's  battle.  To  sit  down  in  his 
study  and  compose  an  article  that  might  be  suitable,  is  a 
hard  work  for  him,  —  twice  as  hard  as  the  real  work, 
and  yet  not  the  real  work,  which  is  to  fight  the  battle  at 
two  hours'  notice,  at  the  given  place  and  time.  The  de- 
bate is  over  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  let  us  say.  Mr. 
Editor  looks  round,  and  fixes  on  his  man.  "  Now  's  your 
time,  Captain  Smith,"  says  he,  "  charge  the  enemy,  and 
rout  them,"  —  or  "  advance,  Colonel  Jones,  with  your 
column,  and  charge." 


THE  ANONYMOUS  IN  PERIODICAL  LITERATURE.    253 

Now  there  may  be  men  who  are  Jones's  or  Robinson's 
superiors  in  intellect,  and  who  —  give  them  a  week  or 
ten  days  to  prepare  —  would  turn  out  such  an  article  as 
neither  of  the  two  men  named  could  ever  have  produced, 
—  that  is  very  likely.  I  have  often,  for  my  part,  said 
the  most  brilliant  thing  in  the -world,  and  one  that  would 
utterly  upset  that  impudent  Jenkins,  whose  confounded 
jokes  and  puns  spare  nobody ;  but  then  it  has  been  three 
hours  after  Jenkins's  pun,  when  I  was  walking  home 
very  likely,  —  and  so  it  is  with  writers ;  some  of  them 
possess  the  amazing  gift  of  the  impromptu,  and  can  al- 
ways be  counted  upon  in  a  moment  of  necessity ;  whilst 
others,  slower  coaches  or  leaders,  require  to  get  all  their 
heavy  guns  into  position,  and  laboriously  to  fortify  their 
camp  before  they  begin  to  fire. 

Now,  saying  that  Robinson  is  the  fellow  chiefly  to  be 
intrusted  with  the  quick  work  of  the  paper,  it  would  be 
a  most  unkind  and  unfair  piece  of  tyranny  on  the  news- 
paper proprietor  to  force  him  to  publish  Robinson's  name 
as  the  author  of  all  the  articles  d'occasion.  You  have 
no  more  right  to  call  for  this  publicity  from  the  newspa- 
per owner,  who  sells  you  three  yards  of  his  printed  fab- 
ric, than  to  demand  from  the  linen-draper  from  what 
wholesale  house  he  got  his  calico,  —  who  spun  it,  who 
owned  the  cotton,  and  who  cropped  it  in  America.  It  is 
the  article,  and  not  the  name  and  pedigree  of  the  artifi- 
cer, which  a  newspaper  or  any  other  dealer  has  a  right 
to  sell  to  the  public.  If  I  get  a  letter  (which  Heaven 
forbid ! )  from  Mr.  Tapes,  my  attorney,  I  know  it  is  not 
in  Tapes's  own  handwriting ;  I  know  it  is  a  clerk  writes 
it.  So  a  newspaper  is  a  composite  work,  got  up  by  many 
hireling  hands,  of  whom  it  is  necessary  to  know  no  other 
name  than  the  printer's  or  proprietor's. 


254    THE  ANONYMOUS  IN  PERIODICAL  LITERATURE. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  men  of  signal  ability  will 
write  for  years  in  papers,  and  perish  unknown,  —  and  in 
so  far  their  lot  is  a  hard  one,  and  the  chances  of  life  are 
against  them.  It  is  hard  upon  a  man,  with  whose  work 
the  whole  town  is  ringing,  that  not  a  soul  should  know 
or  care  who  is  the  author  who  so  delights  the  public. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  your  article  is  excellent, 
would  you  have  had  any  great  renown  from  it,  supposing 
the  paper  had  not  published  it  ?  Would  you  have  had  a 
chance  at  all  but  for  that  paper?  Suppose  you  had 
brought  out  that  article  on  a  broad  sheet,  who  would 
have  bought  it?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  an  unknown 
man  making  a  fortune  by  a  pamphlet  ? 

Again,  it  may  so  happen  to  a  literary  man  that  the 
stipend  which  he  receives  from  one  publication  is  not  suf- 
ficient to  boil  his  family  pot,  and  that  he  must  write  in 
some  other  quarter.  If  Brown  writes  articles  in  the 
daily  papers,  and  articles  in  the  weekly  and  monthly 
periodicals,  too,  and  signs  the  same,  he  surely  weakens 
his  force  by  extending  his  line.  It  would  be  better  for 
him  to  write  incognito  than  to  placard  his  name  in  so 
many  quarters,  —  as  actors  understand,  who  do  not  per- 
form in  too  many  pieces  on  the  same  night ;  and  painters, 
who  know  that  it  is  not  worth  their  while  to  exhibit  more 
than  a  certain  number  of  pictures. 

Besides,  if  to  some  men  the  want  of  publicity  is  an 
evil,  to  many  others  the  privacy  is  most  welcome.  Many 
a  young  barrister  is  a  public  writer,  for  instance,  to  whose 
future  prospects  his  fame  as  a  literary  man  would  give  no 
possible  aid,  and  whose  intention  it  is  to  put  away  the  pen, 
when  the  attorneys  begin  to  find  out  his  juridical  merits. 
To  such  a  man  it  would  only  be  a  misfortune  to  be  known 
as  a  writer  of  leading  articles.  His  battle  for  fame  and 


THE  ANONYMOUS  IN  PERIODICAL  LITERATURE.    255 

fortune  is  to  be  made  with  other  weapons  than  the  pen. 
Then,  again,  a  man  without  ambition,  —  and  there  are 
very  many  such  sensible  persons,  or  whose  ambition  does 
not  go  beyond  h\s  pot  aufeu,  is  happy  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  quietly  and  honorably  adding  to  his  income,  — 
of  occupying  himself,  —  of  improving  himself,  —  of  pay- 
ing for  Tom  at  college,  or  for  Mamma's  carriage,  and 
what  not.  Take  away  this  modest  mask,  —  force  every 
man  upon  the  public  stage  to  appear  with  his  name  pla- 
carded, and  we  lose  some  of  the  best  books,  some  of  the 
best  articles,  some  of  the  pleasantest  wit  that  we  have 
ever  had. 

On  the  whole,  then,  in  this  controversy  I  am  against 
Hitchings ;  and  although  he  insists  upon  it  that  he  is  a 
persecuted  being,  I  do  not  believe  it;  and  although  he 
declares  that  I  ought  to  consider  myself  trampled  on  by 
the  world,  I  decline  to  admit  that  I  am  persecuted,  and 
protest  that  it  treats  me  and  my  brethren  kindly  in  the 
main. 


GOETHE: 

A    LETTER     TO     G.    H.    LEWES. 

LONDON,  28th  April,  1855. 

EAR  LEWES:— I  wish  I  had  more  to  tell 
you  regarding  Weimar  and  Goethe.  Five- 
and-twenty  years  ago,  at  least  a  score  of  young 
English  lads  used  to  live  at  Weimar  for  study, 
or  sport,  or  society ;  all  of  which  were  to  be  had  in  the 
friendly  little  Saxon  capital.  The  Grand  Duke  and 
Duchess  received  us  with  the  kindliest  hospitality.  The 
Court  was  splendid,  but  yet  most  pleasant  and  homely. 
We  were  invited  in  our  turns  to  dinners,  balls,  and  as- 
semblies there.  Such  young  men  as  had  a  right,  appeared 
in  uniforms,  diplomatic  and  military.  Some,  I  remem- 
ber, invented  gorgeous  clothing,  —  the  kind  old  Hof  Mar- 
schall  of  those  days,  M.  de  Spiegel  (who  had  two  of  the 
most  lovely  daughters  eyes  ever  looked  on),  being  in  no- 
wise difficult  as  to  the  admission  of  these  young  England- 
ers.  Of  the  winter  nights  we  used  to  charter  sedan- 
chairs,  in  which  we  were  carried  through  the  snow  to 
those  pleasant  Court  entertainments.  I,  for  my  part,  had 
the  good  luck  to  purchase  Schiller's  sword,  which  formed 
a  part  of  my  Court  costume,  and  still  hangs  in  my  study, 
and  puts  me  in  mind  of  days  of  youth  the  most  kindly 
and  delightful. 


GOETHE.  257 

We  knew  the  whole  society  of  the  little  city,  and  but 
that  the  young  ladies,  one  and  all,  spoke  admirable  Eng- 
lish, we  surely  might  have  learned  the  very  best  German. 
The  society  met  constantly.  The  ladies  of  the  Court  had 
their  evenings.  The  theatre  was  open  twice  or  thrice  in 
the  week,  where  we  assembled,  a  large  family  party. 
Goethe  had  retired  from  the  direction,  but  the  great  tra- 
ditions remained  still.  The  theatre  was  admirably  con- 
ducted ;  and  besides  the  excellent  Weimar  company,  fa- 
mous actors  and  singers  from  various  parts  of  Germany 
performed  "  Gastrolle  "  *  through  the  winter.  In  that 
winter,  I  remember  we  had  Ludwig  Devrient  in  Shylock, 
Hamlet,  Falstaff,  and  the  "  Robbers  " ;  and  the  beautiful 
Schroder  in  «  Fidelio." 

After  three-and-twenty  years'  absence  I  passed  a  couple 
of  summer  days  in  the  well-remembered  place,  and  was 
fortunate  enough  to  find  some  of  the  friends  of  my  youth. 
Madame  de  Goethe  was  there,  and  received  me  and  my 
daughters  with  the  kindness  of  old  days.  We  drank  tea 
in  the  open  air  at  the  famous  cottage  in  the  Park,  f  which 
still  belongs  to  the  family,  and  had  been  so  often  inhab- 
ited by  her  illustrious  father. 

In  1831,  though  he  had  retired  from  the  world,  Goethe 
would  nevertheless  very  kindly  receive  strangers.  His 
daughter-in-law's  tea-table  was  always  spread  for  us.  We 
passed  hours  after  hours  there,  and  night  after  night  with 
the  pleasantest  talk  and  music.  We  read  over  endless 
novels  and  poems  in  French,  English,  and  German.  My 
delight  in  those  days  was  to  make  caricatures  for  chil- 
dren. I  was  touched  to  find  that  they  were  remembered, 
and  some  even  kept  until  the  present  time;  and  very 

*  What  in  England  are  called  "  starring  engagements." 
t  The  Gartenhaus. 

Q 


258  GOETHE. 

proud  to  be  told,  as  a  lad,  that  the  great  Goethe  had 
looked  at  some  of  them. 

He  remained  in  his  private  apartments,  where  only  a 
very  few  privileged  persons  were  admitted ;  but  he  liked 
to  know  all  that  was  happening,  and  interested  himself 
about  all  strangers.  Whenever  a  countenance  struck  his 
fancy,  there  was  an  artist  settled  in  Weimar  who  made  a 
portrait  of  it.  Goethe  had  quite  a  gallery  of  heads,  in 
black  and  white,  taken  by  this  painter.  His  house  was 
all  over  pictures,  drawings,  casts,  statues,  and  medals. 

Of  course  I  remember  very  well  the  perturbation  of 
spirit,  with  which,  as  a  lad  of  nineteen,  I  received  the 
long-expected  intimation  that  the  Herr  Geheimrath  would 
see  me  on  such  a  morning.  This  notable  audience  took 
place  in  a  little  ante-chamber  of  his  private  apartments, 
covered  all  round  with  antique  casts  and  bas-reliefs.  He 
was  habited  in  a  long  gray  or  drab  redingote,  with  a  white 
neckcloth,  and  a  red  ribbon  in  his  button-hole.  He  kept 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  just  as  in  Rauch's  statuette. 
His  complexion  was  very  bright,  clear  and  rosy.  His 
eyes  extraordinarily  dark,*  piercing  and  brilliant.  I  felt 
quite  afraid  before  them,  and  recollect  comparing  them  to 
the  eyes  of  the  hero  of  a  certain  romance  called  "  Mel- 
moth  the  Wanderer,"  which  used  to  alarm  us  boys  thirty 
years  ago,  —  eyes  of  an  individual  who  had  made  a  bar- 
gain with  a  Certain  Person,  and  at  an  extreme  old  age 
retained  these  eyes  in  all  their  awful  splendor.  I  fancied 
Goethe  must  have  been  still  more  handsome  as  an  old 
man  than  even  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  His  voice  was 
very  rich  and  sweet.  He  asked  me  questions  about  my- 

*  This  must  have  been  the  effect  of  the  position  in  which  he  sat 
with  regard  to  the  light.  Goethe's  eyes  were  dark  brown,  but  not  very 
dark. 


GOETHE.  259 

self,  which  I  answered  as  best  I  could.  I  recollect  I  was 
at  first  astonished,  and  then  somewhat  relieved,  when  I 
found  he  spoke  French  with  not  a  good  accent. 

Vidi  tantum.  I  saw  him  but  three  times.  Once,  walk- 
ing in  the  garden  of  his  house  in  the  Frauenplan  ;  once, 
going  to  step  into  his  chariot  on  a  sunshiny  day,  wearing 
a  cap  and  a  cloak  with  a  red  collar.  He  was  caressing 
at  the  time  a  beautiful  little  golden-haired  granddaugh- 
ter, over  whose  sweet,  fair  face  the  earth  has  long  since 
closed  too. 

Any  of  us  who  had  books  or  magazines  from  England 
sent  them  to  him,  and  he  examined  them  eagerly.  "  Fra- 
ser's  Magazine  "  had  lately  come  out,  and  I  remember  he 
was  interested  in  those  admirable  outline  portraits  which 
appeared  for  a  while  in  its  pages.  But  there  was  one,  a 

very  ghastly  character  of  Mr.  R ,  which,  as  Madame 

de  Goethe  told  me,  he  shut  up  and  pu^  away  from  him 
angrily.  "  They  would  make  me  look  like  that,"  he  said  ; 
though  in  truth  I  can  fancy  nothing  more  serene,  majestic, 
and  healthy  looking  than  the  grand  old  Goethe. 

Though  his  sun  was  setting,  the  sky  round  about  was 
calm  and  bright,  and  that  little  Weimar  illumined  by  it. 
In  every  one  of  those  kind  salons  the  talk  was  still  of  Art 
and  letters.  The  theatre,  though  possessing  no  very  ex- 
traordinary actors,  was  still  conducted  with  a  noble  intel- 
ligence and  order.  The  actors  read  books,  and  were 
men  of  letters  and  gentlemen,  holding  a  not  unkindly  re- 
lationship with  the  Add.  At  Court,  the  conversation  was 
exceedingly  friendly,  simple,  and  polished.  The  Grand 
Duchess  (the  present  Grand  Duchess  Dowager),  a  lady 
of  very  remarkable  endowments,  would  kindly  borrow  our 
books  from  us,  lend  us  her  own,  and  graciously  talk  to 
us  young  men  about  our  literary  tastes  and  pursuits.  In 


260  GOETHE. 

the  respect  paid  by  this  Court  to  the  Patriarch  of  letters, 
there  was  something  ennobling,  I  think,  alike  to  the  sub- 
ject and  sovereign.  With  a  five-and-twenty  years'  ex- 
perience since  those  happy  days  of  which  I  write,  and  an 
acquaintance  with  an  immense  variety  of  human  kind,  I 
think  I  have  never  seen  a  society  more  simple,  more 
charitable,  courteous,  gentlemanlike  than  that  of  the  dear 
little  Saxon  city,  where  the  good  Schiller  and  the  great 
Goethe  lived  and  lie  buried. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


A   LEAF  OUT   OF  A   SKETCH-BOOK. 

F  you  will  take  a  leaf  out  of  my  sketch-book, 
you  are  welcome.  It  is  only  a  scrap,  but  I 
have  nothing  better  to  give.  "When  the  fish- 
ing-boats come  in  at  a  watering-place,  have  n't 
you  remarked  that  though  these  may  be  choking  with 
great  fish,  you  can  only  get  a  few  herrings  or  a  whiting 
or  two  ?  The  big  fish  are  all  bespoken  in  London.  As 
it  is  with  fish,  so  it  is  with  authors  let  us  hope.  Some 
Mr.  Charles,  of  Paternoster  Row,  some  Mr.  Groves,  of 
Cornhill,  (or  elsewhere,)  has  agreed  for  your  turbots  and 
your  salmon,  your  soles  and  your  lobsters.  Take  one  of 
my  little  fish,  —  any  leaf  you  like  out  of  the  little  book,  — 
a  battered  little  book :  through  what  a  number  of  coun- 
tries, to  be  sure,  it  has  travelled  in  this  pocket ! 

The  sketches  are  but  poor  performances,  say  you.  I 
don't  say  no  ;  and  value  them  no  higher  than  you  do,  ex- 
cept as  recollections  of  the  past.  The  little  scrawl  helps 
to  fetch  back  the  scene  which  was  present  and  alive  once, 
and  is  gone  away  now,  and  dead.  The  past  resurges  out 
of  its  grave  :  comes  up  —  a  sad-eyed  ghost  sometimes  — 
and  gives  a  wan  ghost-like  look  of  recognition,  ere  it  pops 
down  under  cover  again.  Here's  the  Thames,  an  old 
graveyard,  an  old  church,  and  some  old  chestnuts  stand- 
ing behind  it.  Ah  !  it  was  a  very  cheery  place,  that  old 


262  A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK 

graveyard  ;  but  what  a  dismal,  cut-throat,  crack-windowed, 
disreputable  residence  was  that  "  charming  villa  on  the 
banks  of  the  Thames,"  which  led  me  on  the  day's  ex- 
cursion !  Why,  the  "  capacious  stabling  "  was  a  ruinous 
wooden  old  barn,  the  garden  was  a  mangy  potato  patch, 
overlooked  by  the  territories  of  a  neighboring  washer- 
woman. The  housekeeper  owned  that  the  water  was  con- 
stantly in  the  cellars  and  ground-floor  rooms  in  winter. 
Had  I  gone  to  live  in  that  place,  I  should  have  perished 
like  a  flower  in  spring,  or  a  young  gazelle,  let  us  say,  with 
dark  blue  eye.  I  had  spent  a  day  and  hired  a  fly  at  ever 
so  much  charges,  misled  by  an  unveracious  auctioneer, 
against  whom  I  have  no  remedy  for  publishing  that  abom- 
inable work  of  fiction  which  led  me  to  make  a  journey, 
lose  a  day,  and  waste  a  guinea. 

What  is  the  next  picture  in  the  little  show-book  ?  It 
is  a  scene  at  Calais.  The  sketch  is  entitled  "  The  Little 
Merchant."  He  was  a  dear,  pretty  little  rosy-cheeked  mer- 
chant, four  years  old  maybe.  He  had  a  little  scarlet 
kepi  ;  a  little  military  frock-coat ;  a  little  pair  of  military 
red  trousers  and  boots,  which  did  not  near  touch  the 
ground  from  the  chair  on  which  he  sat  sentinel.  He  was 
a  little  crockery  merchant,  and  the  wares  over  which  he 
was  keeping  guard,  sitting  surrounded  by  walls  and  piles 
of  them  as  in  a  little  castle,  were  ....  well,  I  never 
saw  such  a  queer  little  crockery  merchant. 

Him  and  his  little  chair,  boots,  kepi,  crockery,  you  can 
see  in  the  sketch,  —  but  I  see,  nay  hear,  a  great  deal 
more.  At  the  end  of  the  quiet  little  old,  old  street,  which 
has  retired  out  of  the  world's  business  as  it  were,  being 
quite  too  aged,  feeble,  and  musty  to  take  any  part  in  life, 
—  there  is  a  great  braying  and  bellowing  of  serpents  and 
bassoons,  a  nasal  chant  of  clerical  voices,  and  a  pattering 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK.  263 

of  multitudinous  feet.  We  run  towards  the  market.  It 
is  a  Church  fete  day.  Banners  painted  and  gilt  with 
images  of  saints  are  flaming  in  the  sun.  Candles  are 
held  aloft,  feebly  twinkling  in  the  noontide  shine.  A 
great  procession  of  children  with  white  veils,  white  shoes, 
white  roses,  passes,  and  the  whole  town  is  standing  with 
its  hat  off  to  see  the  religious  show.  When  I  look  at  my 
little  merchant,  then,  I  not  only  see  him,  but  that  proces- 
sion passing  over  the  place  ;  and  as  I  see  those  people  in 
their  surplices,  I  can  almost  see  Eustache  de  St.  Pierre 
and  his  comrades  walking  in  their  shirts  to  present  them- 
selves to  Edward  and  Philippa  of  blessed  memory.  And 
they  stand  before  the  wrathful  monarch,  —  poor  fellows, 
meekly  shuddering  in  their  chemises,  with  ropes  round 
their  necks ;  and  good  Philippa  kneels  before  the  royal 
conqueror,  and  says,  "  My  King,  my  Edward,  my  beau 
Sire  !  Give  these  citizens  their  lives  for  our  Lady's 
gramercy  and  the  sake  of  thy  Philippa  !  "  And  the 
Plantagenet  growls,  and  scowls,  and  softens,  and  he  lets 
those  burgesses  go.  This  novel  and  remarkable  historical 
incident  passes  through  my  mind  as  I  see  the  clergymen 
and  clergyboys  pass  in  their  little  short  white  surplices  on 
a  mid-August  day.  The  balconies  are  full,  the  bells  are 
all  in  a  jangle,  and  the  blue  noonday  sky  quivers  over- 
head. 

I  suppose  other  pen  and  pencil  sketchers  have  the  same 
feeling.  The  sketch  brings  back,  not  only  the  scene,  but 
the  circumstances  under  which  the  scene  was  viewed.  In 
taking  up  an  old  book,  for  instance,  written  in  former 
days  by  your  humble  servant,  he  comes  upon  passages 
which  are  outwardly  lively  and  facetious,  but  inspire  their 
writer  with  the  most  dismal  melancholy.  I  lose  all  cog- 
nizance of  the  text  sometimes,  which  is  hustled  and  el- 


264  A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK. 

bowed  out  of  sight  by  the  crowd  of  thoughts  which  throng 
forward,  and  which  were  alive  and  active  at  the  time  that 
text  was  born.  Ah,  my  good  Sir  !  a  man's  books  may  n't 
be  interesting  (and  I  could  mention  other  authors'  works 
besides  this  one's  which  set  me  to  sleep),  but  if  you  knew 
all  a  writer's  thoughts  how  interesting  his  book  would  be  ! 
Why,  a  grocer's  day-book  might  be  a  wonderful  history, 
if  alongside  of  the  entries  of  cheese,  pickles,  and  figs,  you 
could  read  the  circumstances  of  the  writer's  life,  and  the 
griefs,  hopes,  joys,  which  caused  the  heart  to  beat,  while 
the  hand  was  writing  and  the  ink  flowing  fresh.  Ah 
memory  !  ah  the  past,  ah  the  sad,  sad  past !  Look  under 
this  waistcoat,  my  dear  Madame.  There.  Over  the 
liver.  Don't  be  frightened.  You  can't  see  it.  But 
there,  at  this  moment,  I  assure  you,  there  is  an  enormous 
vulture  gnawing,  gnawing. 

Turn  over  the  page.  You  can't  deny  that  this  is  a  nice 
little  sketch  of  a  quaint  old  town,  with  city  towers,  and  an 
embattled  town  gate,  with  a  hundred  peaked  gables,  and 
ricketty  balconies,  and  gardens  sweeping  down  to  the  river 
wall,  with  its  toppling  ancient  summer-houses  under  which 
the  river  rushes  ;  the  rushing  river,  the  talking  river,  that 
murmurs  all  day,  and  brawls  all  night  over  the  stones. 
At  early  morning  and  evening  under  this  terrace  which 
you  see  in  the  sketch  —  it  is  the  terrace  of  the  Steinbock 
or  Capricorn  Hotel  —  the  cows  come ;  and  there,  under 
the  walnut-trees  before  the  tannery,  is  a  fountain  and 
pump  where  the  maids  come  in  the  afternoon  and  for 
some  hours  make  a  clatter  as  noisy  as  the  river.  Moun- 
tains gird  it  around,  clad  in  dark  green  firs,  with  purple 
shadows  gushing  over  their  sides,  and  glorious  changes 
and  gradations  of  sunrise  and  setting.  A  more  pictu- 
resque, quaint,  kind,  quiet  little  town  than  this  of  Coire  in 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK.  265 

the  Grisons,  I  have  seldom  seen  ;  or  a  more  comfortable 
little  inn  than  this  of  the  Steinbock  or  Capricorn,  on  the 
terrace  of  which  we  are  standing.  But  quick,  let  us  turn 
the  page.  To  look  at  it  makes  one  horribly  melancholy. 
As  we  are  on  the  inn-terrace  one  of  our  party  lies  ill  in 
the  hotel  within.  When  will  that  doctor  come  ?  Can  we 
trust  to  a  Swiss  doctor  in  a  remote  little  town  away  at  the 
confines  of  the  railway  world  ?  He  is  a  good,  sensible, 
complacent  doctor,  laus  Deo,  —  the  people  of  the  hotel 
as  kind,  as  attentive,  as  gentle,  as  eager  to  oblige.  But 
O,  the  gloom  of  those  sunshiny  days  ;  the  sickening 
languor  and  doubt  which  fill  the  heart  as  the  hand  is  mak- 
ing yonder  sketch,  and  I  think  of  the  invalid  suffering 
within  ! 

Quick,  turn  the  page.  And  what  is  here  ?  This  pic- 
ture, ladies  and  gentlemen,  represents  a  steamer  on  the 
Alabama  river,  plying  (or  which  plied),  between  Mont- 
gomery and  Mobile.  See,  there  is  a  black  nurse  with  a 
cotton  handkerchief  round  her  head,  dandling  and  tossing 
a  white  baby.  Look  in  at  the  open  door  of  that  cabin,  or 
"  state  room  "  as  they  call  the  crib  yonder.  A  mother  is 
leaning  by  a  bed-place  ;  and  see,  kicking  up  in  the  air, 
are  a  little  pair  of  white,  fat  legs,  over  which  that  happy 
young  mother  is  bending  in  such  happy,  tender  contem- 
plation. That  gentleman  with  a  forked  beard  and  a 
slouched  hat,  whose  legs  are  sprawling  here  and  there, 
and  who  is  stabbing  his  mouth  and  teeth  with  his  pen- 
knife, is  quite  good-natured,  though  he  looks  so  fierce.  A 
little  time  ago,  as  I  was  reading  in  the  cabin,  having  one 
book  in  my  hand  and  another  at  my  elbow,  he  affably 
took  the  book  at  my  elbow,  read  in  it  a  little,  and  put  it 
down  by  my  side  again.  He  meant  no  harm.  I  say  he 
is  quite  good-natured  and  kind.  His  manners  are  not 
12 


266  A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK. 

those  of  May  Fair,  but  is  not  Alabama  a  river  as  well  as 
Thames  ?  I  wish  that  other  little  gentleman  were  in  the 
cabin  who  asked  me  to  liquor  twice  or  thrice  in  the  course 
of  the  morning,  but  whose  hospitality  I  declined,  prefer- 
ring not  to  be  made  merry  by  wine  or  strong  waters  before 
dinner.  After  dinner,  in  return  for  his  hospitality,  I  asked 
him  if  he  would  drink  ?  "  No,  sir,  I  have  dined,"  he  an- 
swered, with  very  great  dignity,  and  a  tone  of  reproof. 
Very  good.  Manners  differ.  I  have  not  a  word  to  say. 

Well,  my  little  Mentor  is  not  in  my  sketch,  but  he  is 
in  my  mind  as  I  look  at  it :  and  this  sketch,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  is  especially  interesting  and  valuable,  because 
the  steamer  blew  up  on  the  very  next  journey :  blew  up,  I 
give  you  my  honor,  —  burst  her  boilers  close  by  my  state- 
room, so  that  I  might,  had  I  but  waited  for  a  week,  have 
witnessed  a  celebrated  institution  of  the  country,  and  had 
the  full  benefit  of  the  boiling. 

I  turn  a  page  and  who  are  these  little  men  who  appear 
on  it  ?  JIM  and  SADY  are  two  young  friends  of  mine  at 
Savannah  in  Georgia.  I  made  Sady's  acquaintance  on 
a  first  visit  to  America,  —  a  pretty  little  brown  boy  with 
beautiful  bright  eyes,  —  and  it  appears  that  I  presented 
him  with  a  quarter  of  a  dollar,  which  princely  gift  he  re- 
membered years  afterwards,  for  never  were  eyes  more 
bright  and  kind  than  the  little  man's  when  he  saw  me, 
and  I  dined  with  his  kind  masters  on  my  second  visit. 
Jim  at  my  first  visit  had  been  a  little  toddling  tadpole  of 
a  creature,  but  during  the  interval  of  the  two  journeys 
had  developed  into  the  full-blown  beauty  which  you  see. 
On  the  day  after  my  arrival  these  young  persons  paid  me 
a  visit,  and  here  is  a  humble  portraiture  of  them,  and  an 
accurate  account  of  a  conversation  which  took  place  be- 
tween us,  as  taken  down  on  the  spot  by  the  elder  of  the 
interlocutors. 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK. 


267 


Jim  is  five  years  old  :  Sady  is  seben  :  only  Jim  is  a 
great  deal  fatter.  Jim  and  Sady  have  had  sausage  and 
hominy  for  breakfast.  One  sausage,  Jim's  was  the  big- 
gest. Jim  can  sing,  but  declines  on  being  pressed,  and 
looks  at  Sady  and  grins.  They  both  work  in  de  garden. 
Jim  has  been  licked  by  Master,  but  Sady  never.  These 
are  their  best  clothes.  They  go  to  church  in  these  clothes. 
Heard  a  fine  sermon  yesterday,  but  don't  know  what  it 
was  about.  Never  heard  of  England,  never  heard  of 
America.  Like  orangees  best.  Don't  know  any  old 
woman  who  sells  orangees.  (A  pecuniary  transaction 
takes  place.)  Will  give  that  quarter  dollar  to  Pa.  That 
was  Pa  who  waited  at  dinner.  Are  hungry,  but  dinner 
not  cooked  yet.  Jim  all  the  while  is  revolving  on  his 


268 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A  SKETCH-BOOK. 


axis  and  when  begged  to  stand  still  turns  round  in  a  fitful 
manner. 

Exeunt  Jim  and  Sady  with  a  cake  apiece  which  the 
housekeeper  gives  them.     Jim  tumbles  down  stairs. 


In  his  little  red  jacket,  his  little  —  his  little  ?  —  his  im- 
mense red  trousers. 

On  my  word  the  fair  proportions  of  Jim  are  not  exag- 
gerated, —  such  a  queer  little  laughing  blackamoorkin  I 
have  never  seen.  Seen  ?  I  see  him  now,  and  Sady,  and 
a  half-dozen  more  of  the  good  people,  creeping  on  silent 
bare  feet  to  the  drawing-room  door  when  the  music  begins, 
and  listening  with  all  their  ears,  with  all  their  eyes. 
Good  night,  kind  little,  warm-hearted  little  Sady  and 
Jim  !  May  peace  soon  be  within  your  doors,  and  plenty 
within  your  walls  !  I  have  had  so  much  kindness  there, 
that  I  grieve  to  think  of  friends  in  arms,  and  brothers  in 
anger. 


THE    LAST    SKETCH. 


OT  many  days  since  I  went  to  visit  a  house 
where  in  former  years  I  had  received  many  a 
friendly  welcome.  We  went  in  to  the  own- 
er's—  an  artist's  —  studio.  Prints,  pictures, 
and  sketches  hung  on  the  walls  as  I  had  last  seen  and 
remembered  them.  The  implements  of  the  painter's  art 
were  there.  The  light  which  had  shone  upon  so  many, 
many  hours  of  patient  and  cheerful  toil,  poured  through 
the  northern  window  upon  print  and  bust,  lay  figure  and 
sketch,  and  upon  the  easel  before  which  the  good,  the 
gentle,  the  beloved  Leslie  labored.  In  this  room  the 
busy  brain  had  devised,  and  the  skilful  hand  executed, 
I  know  not  how  many  of  the  noble  works  which  have 
delighted  the  world  with  their  beauty  and  charming  hu- 
mor. Here  the  poet  called  up  into  pictorial  presence, 
and  informed  with  life,  grace,  beauty,  infinite  friendly 
mirth  and  wondrous  naturalness  of  expression,  the  people 
of  whom  his  dear  books  told  him  the  stories,  —  his  Shake- 
speare, his  Cervantes,  his  Moliere,  his  Le  Sage.  There 
was  his  last  work  on  the  easel,  —  a  beautiful  fresh  smil- 
ing shape  of  Titania,  such  as  his  sweet  guileless  fancy 
imagined  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  "  queen  to  be.  Gra- 
cious, and  pure,  and  bright,  the  sweet  smiling  image 
glimmers  on  the  canvas.  Fairy  elves,  no  doubt,  were  to 


270  THE.  LAST  SKETCH. 

have  been  grouped  around  their  mistress  in  laughing 
clusters.  Honest  Bottom's  grotesque  head  and  form  are 
indicated  as  reposing  by  the  side  of  the  consummate 
beauty.  The  darkling  forest  would  have  grown  around 
them,  with  the  stars  glittering  from  the  midsummer  sky : 
the  flowers  at  the  queen's  feet,  and  the  boughs  and  foliage 
about  her,  would  have  been  peopled  with  gambolling 
sprites  and  fays.  They  were  dwelling  in  the  artist's 
mind,  no  doubt,  and  would  have  been  developed  by  that 
patient,  faithful,  admirable  genius :  but  the  busy  brain 
stopped  working,  the  skilful  hand  fell  lifeless,  the  loving, 
honest  heart  ceased  to  beat.  What  was  she  to  have  been 
—  that  fair  Titania  —  when  perfected  by  the  patient  skill 
of  the  poet,  who  in  imagination  saw  the  sweet  innocent 
figure,  and  with  tender  courtesy  and  caresses,  as  it  were, 
posed  and  shaped  and  traced  the  fair  form?  Is  there 
record  kept  anywhere  of  fancies  conceived,  beautiful,  un- 
born ?  Some  day  will  they  assume  form  in  some  yet  un- 
developed light  ?  If  our  bad  unspoken  thoughts  are  reg- 
istered against  us,  and  are  written  in  the  awful  account, 
will  not  the  good  thoughts  unspoken,  the  love  and  tender- 
ness, the  pity,  beauty,  charity,  which  pass  through  the 
breast,  and  cause  the  heart  to  throb  with  silent  good,  find 
a  remembrance,  too  ?  A  few  weeks  more,  and  this  lovely 
offspring  of  the  poet's  conception  would  have  been  com- 
plete,—  to  charm  the  world  with  its  beautiful  mirth. 
May  there  not  be  some  sphere  unknown  to  us  where  it 
may  have  an  existence  ?  They  say  our  words,  once  out 
of  our  lips,  go  travelling  in  omne  cevum,  reverberating  for 
ever  and  ever.  If  our  words,  why  not  our  thoughts  ?  If 
the  Has  Been,  why  not  the  Might  Have  Been  ? 

Some  day  our  spirits  may  be  permitted  to  walk  in  gal- 
leries of  fancies  more  wondrous  and  beautiful  than  any 


THE  LAST  SKETCH.  271 

achieved  works  which  at  present  we  see,  and  our  minds 
to  behold  and  delight  in  masterpieces  which  poets'  and 
artists'  minds  have  fathered  and  conceived  only. 

With  a  feeling  much  akin  to  that  with  which  I  looked 
upon  the  friend's  —  the  admirable  artist's  —  unfinished 
work,  I  can  fancy  many  readers  turning  to  these,  —  the 
last  pages  which  were  traced  by  Charlotte  Bronte's 
hand.  Of  the  multitude  that  has  read  her  books,  who 
has  not  known  and  deplored  the  tragedy  of  her  family, 
her  own  most  sad  and  untimely  fate  ?  Which  of  her  read- 
ers has  not  become  her  friend?  Who  that  has  known 
her  books  has  not  admired  the  artist's  noble  English, 
the  burning  love  of  truth,  the  bravery,  the  simplicity, 
the  indignation  at  wrong,  the  eager  sympathy,  the  pious 
love  and  reverence,  the  passionate  honor,  so  to  speak,  of 
the  woman  ?  What  a  story  is  that  of  that  family  of  poets 
in  their  solitude  yonder  on  the  gloomy  northern  moors ! 
At  nine  o'clock  at  night,  Mrs.  Gaskell  tells,  after  evening 
prayers,  when  their  guardian  and  relative  had  gone  to  bed, 
the  three  poetesses,  —  the  three  maidens,  Charlotte,  and 
Emily,  and  Anne,  —  Charlotte  being  the  "motherly  friend 
and  guardian  to  the  other  two,"  — "  began,  like  restless 
wild  animals,  to  pace  up  and  down  their  parlor,  "  making 
out "  their  wonderful  stories,  talking  over  plans  and  pro- 
jects, and  thoughts  of  what  was  to  be  their  future  life. 

One  evening,  at  the  close  of  1854,  as  Charlotte  Nicholls 
sat  with  her  husband  by  the  fire,  listening  to  the  howling 
of  the  wind  about  the  house,  she  suddenly  said  to  her 
husband,  "  If  you  had  not  been  with  me,  I  must  have 
been  writing  now."  She  then  ran  up  stairs  and  brought 
down,  and  read  aloud,  the  beginning  of  a  new  tale.  When 
she  had  finished,  her  husband  remarked,  "  the  critics  will 
accuse  you  of  repetition."  She  replied,  "  O,  I  shall  alter 


272  THE  LAST  SKETCH. 

that.  I  always  begin  two  or  three  times  before  I  can 
please  myself."  But  it  was  not  to  be.  The  trembling 
little  hand  was  to  write  no  more.  The  heart,  newly 
awakened  to  love  and  happiness,  and  throbbing  with  ma- 
ternal hope,  was  soon  to  cease  to  beat ;  that  intrepid  out- 
speaker  and  champion  of  truth,  that  eager,  impetuous 
redresser  of  wrong,  was  to  be  called  out  of  the  world's 
fight  and  struggle,  to  lay  down  the  shining  arms,  and  to 
be  removed  to  a  sphere  where  even  a  noble  indignation 
cor  ulterius  nequit  lacerare,  and  where  truth  complete, 
and  right  triumphant,  no  longer  need  to  wage  war. 

I  can  only  say  of  this  lady,  vidi  tantum.  I  saw  her 
first  just  as  I  rose  out  of  an  illness  from  which  I  had 
never  thought  to  recover.  I  remember  the  trembling  little 
frame,  the  little  hand,  the  great  honest  eyes.  An  impet- 
uous honesty  seemed  to  me  to  characterize  the  woman. 
Twice  I  recollect  she  took  me  to  task  for  what  she  held 
to  be  errors  in  doctrine.  Once  about  Fielding  we  had  a 
disputation.  She  spoke  her  mind  out.  She  jumped  too 
rapidly  to  conclusions.  (I  have  smiled  at  one  or  two 
passages  in  the  "  Biography,"  in  which  my  own  disposi- 
tion or  behavior  forms  the  subject  of  talk.)  She  formed 
conclusions  that  might  be  wrong,  and  built  up  whole  theo- 
ries of  character  upon  them.  New  to  the  London  world, 
she  entered  it  with  an  independent,  indomitable  spirit  of 
her  own ;  and  judged  of  contemporaries,  and  especially 
spied  out  arrogance  or  affectation,  with  extraordinary 
keenness  of  vision.  She  was  angry  with  her  favor- 
ites if  their  conduct  or  conversation  fell  below  her  ideal. 
Often  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  judging  the  London  folk 
prematurely :  but  perhaps  the  city  is  rather  angry  at  be- 
ing judged.  I  fancied  an  austere  little  Joan  of  Arc 
marching  in  upon  us,  and  rebuking  our  easy  lives,  our 


THE  LAST  SKETCH.  273 

easy  morals.  She  gave  me  the  impression  of  being  a 
very  pure,  and  lofty,  and  high-minded  person.  A  great 
and  holy  reverence  of  right  and  truth  seemed  to  be  with 
her  always.  Such,  in  our  brief  interview,  she  appeared 
to  me.  As  one  thinks  of  that  life  so  noble,  so  lonely,  — 
of  that  passion  for  truth,  —  of  those  nights  and  nights 
of  eager  study,  swarming  fancies,  invention,  depression, 
elation,  prayer ;  as  one  reads  the  necessarily  incom- 
plete, though  most  touching  and  admirable  history  of  the 
heart  that  throbbed  in  this  one  little  frame,  —  of  this  one 
amongst  the  myriads  of  souls  that  have  lived  and  died  on 
this  great  earth,  —  this  great  earth?  — this  little  speck  in 
the  infinite  universe  of  God,  —  with  what  wonder  do  we 
think  of  to-day,  with  what  awe  await  to-morrow,  when 
that  which  is  now  but  darkly  seen  shall  be  clear !  As  I 
read  this  little  fragmentary  sketch,  I  think  of  the  rest.  Is 
it  ?  And  where  is  it  ?  Will  not  the  leaf  be  turned  some 
day,  and  the  story  be  told  ?  Shall  the  deviser  of  the  tale 
somewhere  perfect  the  history  of  little  EMMA'S  griefs  and 
troubles  ?  Shall  TITANIA  come  forth  complete  with  her 
sportive  court,  with  the  flowers  at  her  feet,  the  forest  around 
her,  and  all  the  stars  of  summer  glittering  overhead  ? 

How  well  I  remember  the  delight,  and  wonder,  and 
pleasure  with  which  I  read  "  Jane  Eyre,"  sent  to  me-  by 
an  author  whose  name  and  sex  were  then  alike  unknown 
to  me ;  the  strange  fascinations  of  the  book ;  and  how, 
with  my  own  work  pressing  upon  me,  I  could  not,  having 
taken  the  volumes  up,  lay  them  clown  until  they  were 
read  through !  Hundreds  of  those  who,  like  myself,  rec- 
ognized and  admired  that  master-work  of  a  great  genius, 
will  look  with  a  mournful  interest  and  regard  and  curi- 
osity upon  the  last  fragmentary  sketch  from  the  noble 
hand  which  wrote  "  Jane  Eyre." 

12*  K 


"STRANGE  TO   SAY,  ON   CLUB   PAPER." 

EFORE  the  Duke  of  York's  column,  and  be- 
tween the  Athenseum  and  United  Service 
Clubs,  I  have  seen  more  than  once,  on  the  es- 
planade, a  preacher  holding  forth  to  a  little 
congregation  of  badauds  and  street-boys,  whom  he  enter- 
tains with  a  discourse  on  the  crimes  of  a  rapacious  aris- 
tocracy, or  warns  of  the  imminent  peril  of  their  own 
souls.  Sometimes  this  orator  is  made  to  "  move  on  "  by 
brutal  policemen.  Sometimes,  on  a  Sunday,  he  points  to 
a  white  head  or  two  visible  in  the  windows  of  the  clubs 
to  the  right  and  left  of  him,  and  volunteers  a  statement 
that  those  quiet  and  elderly  Sabbath-breakers  will  very 
soon  be  called  from  this  world  to  another,  where  their  lot 
will  by  no  means  be  so  comfortable  as  that  which  the  rep- 
robates enjoy  here,  in  their  arm-chairs,  by  their  snug 
fires. 

At  the  end  of  last  month,  had  I  been  a  Pall  Mall 
preacher,  I  would  have  liked  to  send  a  whip  round  to  all 
the  clubs  in  St.  James's,  and  convoke  the  few  members 
remaining  in  London  to  hear  a  discourse  sub  Dio  on  a 
text  from  the  Observer  newspaper.  I  would  have  taken 
post  under  the  statue  of  Fame,  say,  where  she  stands 
distributing  wreaths  to  the  three  Crimean  Guardsmen. 
(The  crossing-sweeper  does  not  obstruct  the  path,  and  I 


"STRANGE  TO  SAY,   ON  CLUB  PAPER."  275 

suppose  is  away  at  his  villa  on  Sundays.)  And,  when 
the  congregation  was  pretty  quiet,  I  would  have  be- 
gun: — 

In  the  Observer  of  the  27th  September,  1863,  in  the 
fifth  page  and  the  fourth  column,  it  is  thus  written :  — 

"  The  codicil  appended  to  the  will  of  the  late  Lord 
Clyde,  executed  at  Chatham,  and  bearing  the  signature 
of  Clyde,  F.  M.,  is  written,  strange  to  say,  on  a  sheet  of 
paper  bearing  the  Atkenceum  Club  mark." 

What  the  codicil  is,  my  dear  brethren,  it  is  not  our 
business  to  inquire.  It  conveys  a  benefaction  to  a  faith- 
ful and  attached  friend  of  the  good  field-marshal.  The 
gift  may  be  a  lac  of  rupees,  or  it  may  be  a  house  and  its 
contents,  — furniture,  plate,  and  wine-cellar.  My  friends, 
I  know  the  wine-merchant,  and,  for  the  sake  of  the  leg- 
atee, hope  heartily  that  the  stock  is  large. 

Am  I  wrong,  dear  brethren,  in  supposing  that  you 
expect  a  preacher  to  say  a  seasonable  word  on  death 
here?  If  you  don't,  I  fear  you  are  but  little  familiar 
with  the  habits  of  preachers,  and  are  but  lax  hearers  of 
sermons.  We  might  contrast  the  vault  where  the  war- 
rior's remains  lie  shrouded  and  coffined,  with  that  in 
which  his  worldly  provision  of  wine  is  stowed  away. 
Spain  and  Portugal  and  France,  —  all  the  lands  which 
supplied  his  store,  —  as  hardy  and  obedient  subaltern,  as 
resolute  captain,  as  colonel  daring  but  prudent,  —  he  has 
visited  the  fields  of  all.  In  India  and  China  he  marches 
always  unconquered ;  or  at  the  head  of  his  dauntless 
Highland  brigade  he  treads  the  Crimean  snow ;  or  he 
rides  from  conquest  to  conquest  in  India  once  more ;  suc- 
coring his  countrymen  in  the  hour  of  their  utmost  need ; 
smiting  down  the  scared  mutiny,  and  trampling  out  the 
embers  of  rebellion ;  at  the  head  of  a  heroic  army,  a 


276          "  STRANGE  TO  SAY,   ON  CLUB  PAPER." 

consummate  chief.  And  now  his  glorious  old  sword  is 
sheathed,  and  his  honors  are  won ;  and  he  has  bought 
him  a  house,  and  stored  it  with  modest  cheer  for  his 
friends  (the  good  old  man  put  water  in  his  own  wine,  and 
a  glass  or  two  sufficed  him),  —  behold  the  end  comes,  and 
his  legatee  inherits  these  modest  possessions  by  virtue  of 
a  codicil  to  his  lordship's  will,  written,  "strange  to  say, 
upon  a  sheet  of  paper  bearing  the  Athenceum  Club  mark" 
It  is  to  this  part  of  the  text,  my  brethren,  that  I  pro- 
pose to  address  myself  particularly,  and  if  the  remarks  I 
make  are  offensive  to  any  of  you,  you  know  the  doors  of 
our  meeting-house  are  open,  and  you  can  walk  out  when 
you  will.  Around  us  are  magnificent  halls  and  palaces, 
frequented  by  such  a  multitude  of  men  as  not  even  the 
Roman  Forum  assembled  together.  Yonder  are  the 
Martium  and  the  Palladium.  Next  to  the  Palladium  is 
the  elegant  Viatorium,  which  Barry  gracefully  stole  from 
Rome.  By  its  side  is  the  massive  Reformatorium :  and 
the  —  the  Ultratorium  rears  its  granite  columns  beyond. 
Extending  down  the  street  palace  after  palace  rises  mag- 
nificent, and  under  their  lofty  roofs  warriors  and  lawyers, 
merchants  and  nobles,  scholars  and  seamen,  the  wealthy, 
the  poor,  the  busy,  the  idle  assemble.  Into  the  halls 
built  down  this  little  street  and  its  neighborhood  the  prin- 
cipal men  of  all  London  come  to  hear  or  impart  the 
news ;  and  the  affairs  of  the  state  or  of  private  individu- 
als, the  quarrels  of  empires  or  of  authors,  the  movements 
of  the  court  or  the  splendid  vagaries  of  fashion,  the  in- 
trigues of  statesmen  or  of  persons  of  another,  sex  yet 
more  wily,  the  last  news  of  battles  in  the  great  occidental 
continents,  nay,  the  latest  betting  for  the  horse-races,  or 
the  advent  of  a  dancer  at  the  theatre,  —  all  that  men  do 
is  discussed  in  these  Pall  Mall  agora?,  where  we  of  Lon- 
don daily  assemble. 


"STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER."          277 

Now  among  so  many  talkers,  consider  how  many  false 
reports  must  fly  about :  in  such  multitudes  imagine  how 
many  disappointed  men  there  must  be ;  how  many  chat- 
terboxes; how  many  feeble  and  credulous  (whereof  I 
mark  some  specimens  in  my  congregation)  ;  how  many 
mean,  rancorous,  prone  to  believe  ill  of  their  betters, 
eager  to  find  fault ;  and  then,  my  brethren,  fancy  how  the 
words  of  my  text  must  have  been  read  and  received  in 
Pall  Mall !  (I  perceive  several  of  the  congregation 
looking  most  uncomfortable.  One  old  boy  with  a  dyed 
mustache  turns  purple  in  the  face,  and  struts  back  to 
the  Martium ;  another,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder  and 
a  murmur  of  "  Rubbish,"  slinks  away  in  the  direction  of 
the  Togatorium,  and  the  preacher  continues.)  The  will 
of  Field-Marshal  Lord  Clyde  —  signed  at  Chatham, 
mind,  where  his  lordship  died  —  is  written,  strange  to 
say,  on  a  sheet  of  paper  bearing  the  Athenaeum  Club 
mark ! 

The  inference  is  obvious.  A  man  cannot  get  Athenas- 
um  paper  except  at  the  Athenaeum.  Such  paper  is  not 
sold  at  Chatham,  where  the  last  codicil  to  his  lordship's 
will  is  dated.  And  so  the  painful  belief  is  forced  upon 
us,  that  a  Peer,  a  Field-Marshal,  wealthy,  respected,  il- 
lustrious, could  pocket  paper  at  his  club,  and  carry  it 
away  with  him  to  the  country.  One  fancies  the  hall  porter 
conscious  of  the  old  lord's  iniquity,  and  holding  down  his 
head  as  the  marshal  passes  the  door.  What  is  that  roll 
which  his  lordship  carries?  Is  it  his  marshal's  baton 
gloriously  won  ?  No ;  it  is  a  roll  of  foolscap  conveyed 
from  the  club.  What  has  he  on  his  breast,  under  his 
great-coat  ?  Is  it  his  Star  of  India  ?  No  ;  it  is  a  bundle 
of  envelopes,  bearing  the  head  of  Minerva,  some  sealing- 
wax,  and  a  half-score  of  pens. 


278          "  STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER." 

Let  us  imagine  how  in  the  hall  of  one  or  other  of  these 
clubs  this  strange  anecdote  will  be  discussed. 

"  Notorious  screw,"  says  Sneer.  "  The  poor  old  fel- 
low's avarice  has  long  been  known." 

u  Suppose  he  wishes  to  imitate  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough,"  says  Simper. 

"  Habit  of  looting  contracted  in  India,  you  know ;  ain't 
so  easy  to  get  over,  you  know,"  says  Snigger. 

"  When  officers  dined  with  him  in  India,"  remarks  Sol- 
emn, "  it  was  notorious  that  the  spoons  were  all  of  a  dif- 
ferent pattern." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  n't  true.  Suppose  he  wrote  his  paper 
at  the  club  ?  "  interposes  Jones. 

u  It  is  dated  at  Chatham,  my  good  man,"  says  Brown. 
"  A  man  if  he  is  in  London,  says  he  is  in  London.  A 
man  if  he  is  in  Rochester,  says  he  is  in  Rochester.  This 
man  happens  to  forget  that  he  is  using  the  club  paper; 
and  he  happens  to  be  found  out :  many  men  don't  happen 
to  be  found  out.  I  've  seen  literary  fellows  at  clubs  writ- 
ing their  rubbishing  articles ;  I  have  no  doubt  they  take 
away  reams  of  paper.  They  crib  thoughts  ;  why  should 
n't  they  crib  stationery  ?  One  of  your  literary  vagabonds 
who  is  capable  of  stabbing  a  reputation,  who  is  capable 
of  telling  any  monstrous  falsehood  to  support  his  party, 
is  surely  capable  of  stealing  a  ream  of  paper." 

"  Well,  well,  we  have  all  our  weaknesses,"  sighs  Rob- 
inson. "  Seen  that  article,  Thompson,  in  the  Observer, 
about  Lord  Clyde  and  the  club  paper?  You  '11  find  it 
up  stairs.  In  the  third  column  of  the  fifth  page,  towards 
the  bottom  of  the  page.  I  suppose  he  was  so  poor  he 
could  n't  afford  to  buy  a  quire  of  paper.  Had  n't  four- 
pence  in  the  world.  0,  no !  " 

"  And  they  want  to  get  up  a  testimonial  to  this  man's 


"STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER."          279 

memory,  —  a  statue  or  something !  "  cries  Jawkins.  "  A 
man  who  wallows  in  wealth  and  takes  paper  away  from 
his  club !  I  don't  say  he  is  not  brave  :  brutal  courage 
most  men  have.  I  don't  say  he  was  not  a  good  officer : 
a  man  with  such  experience  must  have  been  a  good  offi- 
cer, unless  he  was  born  fool.  But  to  think  of  this  man, 
loaded  with  honors,  —  though  of  a  low  origin,  —  so  lost  to 
self-respect  as  actually  to  take  away  the  Athenselim  paper  ! 
These  parvenus,  sir,  betray  their  origin,  —  betray  their 
origin.  I  said  to  my  wife  this  very  morning,  '  Mrs.  Jaw- 
kins,'  I  said,  '  there  is  talk  of  a  testimonial  to  this  man. 
I  will  not  give  one  shilling.  I  have  no  idea  of  raising 
statues  to  fellows  who  take  away  club  paper.  No,  by 
George,  I  have  not.  Why,  they  will  be  raising  statues 
to  men  who  take  club  spoons  next !  Not  one  penny  of 
my  money  shall  they  have  ! ' ' 

And  now,  if  you  please,  we  will  tell  the  real  story 
which  has  furnished  this  scandal  to  a  newspaper,  this  tat- 
tle to  club  gossips  and  loungers.  The  field-marshal,  wish- 
ing to  make  a  further  provision  for  a  friend,  informed  his 
lawyer  what  he  desired  to  do.  The  lawyer,  a  member  of 
the  Athenaeum  Club,  there  wrote  the  draft  of  such  a  codi- 
cil as  he  would  advise,  and  sent  the  paper  by  the  post  to 
Lord  Clyde  at  Chatham.  Lord  Clyde,  finding  the  paper 
perfectly  satisfactory,  signed  it  and  sent  it  back:  and 
hence  we  have  the  story  of  "  the  codicil  bearing  the  sig- 
nature of  Clyde,  F.  M.,  and  written,  strange  to  say,  upon 
paper  bearing  the  Athenaeum  Club  mark." 

Here  I  have  been  imagining  a  dialogue  between  a  half- 
dozen  gossips  such  as  congregate  round  a  club  fireplace 
of  an  afternoon.  I  wonder  how  many  people  besides,  — 
whether  any  chance  reader  of  this  very  page,  has  read 
and  believed  this  story  about  the  good  old  lord  ?  Have 


280          "STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER." 

the  country  papers  copied  the  anecdote,  and  our  "  own 
correspondents  "  made  their  remarks  on  it  ?  If,  my  good 
sir,  or  madam,  you  have  read  it  and  credited  it,  don't  you 
own  to  a  little  feeling  of  shame  and  sorrow,  now  that  the 
trumpery  little  mystery  is  cleared  ?  To  "  the  new  inhabi- 
tant of  light,"  passed  away  and  out  of  reach  of  our  cen- 
sure, misrepresentation,  scandal,  dulness,  malice,  a  silly 
falsehood  matters  nothing.  Censure  and  praise  are  alike 
to  him,  —  "  the  music  warbling  to  the  deafened  ear,  the  in- 
cense wasted  on  the  funeral  bier,"  the  pompous  eulogy 
pronounced  over  the  gravestone,  or  the  lie  that  slander 
spits  on  it.  Faithfully  though  this  brave  old  chief  did 
his  duty,  honest  and  upright  though  his  life  was,  glorious 
his  renown,  —  you  see  he  could  write  at  Chatham  on  Lon- 
don paper ;  you  see  men  can  be  found  to  point  out  how 
"  strange  "  his  behavior  was. 

And  about  ourselves  ?  My  good  people,  do  you  by 
chance  know  any  man  or  woman  who  has  formed  unjust 
conclusions  regarding  his  neighbor  ?  Have  you  ever 
found  yourself  willing,  nay,  eager  to  believe  evil  of  some 
man  whom  you  hate  ?  Whom  you  hate  because  he  is 
successful,  and  you  are  not :  because  he  is  rich,  and  you 
are  poor :  because  he  dines  with  great  men  who  don't  in- 
vite you :  because  he  wears  a  silk  gown,  and  yours  is 
still  stuff:  because  he  has  been  called  in  to  perform  the 
operation  though  you  lived  close  by :  because  his  pictures 
have  been  bought,  and  yours  returned  home  unsold :  be- 
cause he  fills  his  church,  and  you  are  preaching  to  empty 
pews  ?  If  your  rival  prospers,  have  you  ever  felt  a 
twinge  of  anger  ?  If  his  wife's  carriage  passes  you  and 
Mrs.  Tomkins,  who  are  in  a  cab,  don't  you  feel  that  those 
people  are  giving  themselves  absurd  airs  of  importance  ? 
If  he  lives  with  great  people,  are  you  not  sure  he  is  a 
sneak  ?  And  if  vou  ever  felt  envy  towards  another,  and 


"  STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER."          281 

if  your  heart  has  ever  been  black  towards  your  brother, 
if  you  have  been  peevish  at  his  success,  pleased  to  hear 
his  merit  depreciated,  and  eager  to  believe  all  that  is  said 
in  his  disfavor,  —  my  good  sir,  as  you  yourself  contritely 
own  that  you  are  unjust,  jealous,  uncharitable,  so  you 
may  be  sure  some  men  are  uncharitable,  jealous,  and  un- 
just regarding  you. 

The  proofs  and  manuscript  of  this  little  sermon  have 
just  come  from  the  printer's,  and  as  I  look  at  the  writing, 
I  perceive,  not  without  a  smile,  that  one  or  two  of  the 
pages  bear,  "  strange  to  say,"  the  mark  of  a  club  of  which 
I  have  the  honor  to  be  a  member.  Those  lines  quoted  in 
a  foregoing  page  are  from  some  noble  verses  written  by 
one  of  Mr.  Addison's  men,  Mr.  Tickell,  on  the  death  of 
Cadogan,  who  was  amongst  the  most  prominent  "  of  Marl- 
borough's  captains  and  Eugenio's  friends."  If  you  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  those  times,  you  have  read 
how  Cadogan  had  his  feuds  and  hatreds  too,  as  Tickell's 
patron  had  his,  as  Cadogan's  great  chief  had  his.  "  The 
Duke  of  Marlborough's  character  has  been  so  variously 
drawn"  (writes  a  famous  contemporary  of  the  duke's), 
"  that  it  is  hard  to  pronounce  on  either  side  without  the 
suspicion  of  flattery  or  detraction.  I  shall  say  nothing  of 
his  military  accomplishments,  which  the  opposite  reports 
of  his  friends  and  enemies  among  the  soldiers  have  ren- 
dered problematical.  Those  maliguers  who  deny  him 
personal  valor,  seem  not  to  consider  that  this  accusation 
is  charged  at  a  venture,  since  the  person  of  a  general  is 
too  seldom  exposed,  and  that  fear  which  is  said  sometimes 
to  have  disconcerted  him  before  action  might  probably  be 
more  for  his  army  than  himself."  If  Swift  could  hint  a 
doubt  of  Marlborough's  courage,  what  wonder  that  a 
nameless  scribe  of  our  day  should  question  the  honor  of 
Clyde? 


AUTOUR   DE   MON   CHAPEAU. 


EVER  have  I  seen  a  more  noble  tragic  face. 
In  the  centre  of  the  forehead  there  was  a 
great  furrow  of  care,  towards  which  the  brows 
rose  piteously.  What  a  deep  solemn  grief  in 
the  eyes  !  They  looked  blankly  at  the  object  before  them, 
but  through  it,  as  it  were,  and  into  the  grief  beyond.  In 
moments  of  pain,  have  you  not  looked  at  some  indifferent 
object  so  ?  It  mingles  dumbly  with  your  grief,  and  re- 
mains afterwards  connected  with  it  in  your  mind.  It 
may  be  some  indifferent  thing,  —  a  book  which  you  were 
reading  at  the  time  when  you  received  her  farewell  let- 
ter (how  well  you  remember  the  paragraph  afterwards,  — 
the  shape  of  the  words,  and  their  position  on  the  page !)  ; 
the  words  you  were  writing  when  your  mother  came  in, 
and  said  it  was  all  over,  —  she  was  MARRIED,  —  Emily 
married, — to  that  insignificant  little  rival  at  whom  you 
have  laughed  a  hundred  times  in  her  company.  Well, 
well,  my  friend  and  reader,  whoe'er  you  be,  —  old  man 
or  young,  wife  or  maiden,  —  you  have  had  your  grief- 
pang.  Boy,  you  have  lain  awake  the  first  night  at- 
school,  and  thought  of  home.  Worse  still,  man,  you  have 
parted  from  the  dear  ones  with  bursting  heart:  and, 
lonely  boy,  recall  the  bolstering  an  unfeeling  comrade 
gave  you ;  and,  lonely  man,  just  torn  from  your  children, 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU.  283 

—  their  little  tokens  of  affection  yet  in  your  pocket, — 
pacing  the  deck  at  evening  in  the  midst  of  the  roaring 
ocean,  you  can  remember  how  you  were  told  that  supper 
was  ready,  and  how  you  went  down  to  the  cabin  and  had 
brandy-and-water  and  biscuit.  You  remember  the  taste 
of  them.  Yes,  —  forever.  You  took  them  whilst  you  and 
your  Grief  were  sitting  together,  and  your  Grief  clutched 
you  round  the  soul.  Serpent,  how  you  have  writhed  round 
me,  and  bitten  me !  Remorse,  Remembrance,  &c.,  come 
in  the  night  season,  and  I  feel  you  gnawing,  gnawing! 
....  I  tell  you  that  man's  face  was  like  Laocoon's 
(which,  by  the  way,  I  always  think  overrated.  The 
real  head  is  at  Brussels,  at  the  Duke  Daremberg's,  not 
at  Rome). 

That  man !  What  man  ?  That  man  of  whom  I  said 
that  his  magnificent  countenance  exhibited  the  noblest 
tragic  woe.  He  was  not  of  European  blood.  He  was 
handsome,  but  not  of  European  beauty.  His  face  white, 
—  not  of  a  Northern  whiteness:  his  eyes  protruding 
somewhat,  and  rolling  in  their  grief.  Those  eyes  had 
seen  the  Orient  sun,  and  his  beak  was  the  eagle's.  His 
lips  were  full.  The  beard,  curling  round  them,  was  un- 
kempt and  tawny.  The  locks  were  of  a  deep,  deep  cop- 
pery red.  The  hands,  swart  and  powerful,  accustomed 
to  the  rongh  grasp  of  the  wares  in  which  he  dealt,  seemed 
unused  to  the  flimsy  artifices  of  the  bath.  He  came  from 
the  Wilderness,  and  its  sands  were  on  his  robe,  his  cheek, 
his  tattered  sandal,  and  the  hardy  foot  it  covered. 

And  his  grief,  —  whence  came  his  sorrow  ?  I  will  tell 
you.  He  bore  it  in  his  hand.  He  had  evidently  just 
concluded  the  compact  by  which  it  became  his.  His 
business  was  that  of  a  purchaser  of  domestic  raiment. 
At  early  dawn,  —  nay,  at  what  hour  when  the  city  is 


284  AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU. 

alive,  —  do  we  not  all  hear  the  nasal  cry  of  "  Clo  "  ?  In 
Paris,  Habits  Galons,  Marchand  d'habits,  is  the  twanging 
signal*  with  which  the  wandering  merchant  makes  his 
presence  known.  It  was  in  Paris  I  saw  this  man. 
Where  else  have  I  not  seen  him  ?  In  the  Roman  Ghet- 
to, —  at  the  Gate  of  David,  in  his  fathers'  once  imperial 
city.  The  man  I  mean  was  an  itinerant  vendor  and 
purchaser  of  wardrobes,  —  what  you  call  an  .... 
Enough !  You  know  his  name. 

On  his  left  shoulder  hung  his  bag ;  and  he  held  in  that 
hand  a  white  hat,  which  I  am  sure  he  had  just  purchased, 
and  which  was  the  cause  of  the  grief  which  smote  his 
noble  features.  Of  course  I  cannot  particularize  the  sum, 
but  he  had  given  too  much  for  that  hat.  He  felt  he 
might  have  got  the  thing  for  less  money.  It  was  not  the 
amount,  I  am  sure  it  was  the  principle  involved.  He 
had  given  fourpeuce  (let  us  say)  for  that  which  three- 
pence would  have  purchased.  He  had  been  done :  and 
a  manly  shame  was  upon  him,  that  he,  whose  energy, 
acuteness,  experience,  point  of  honor,  should  have  made 
him  the  victor  in  any  mercantile  duel  in  which  he  should 
engage,  —  had  been  overcome  by  a  porter's  wife,  who  very 
likely  sold  him  the  old  hat,  or  by  a  student  who  was  tired 
of  it.  I  can  understand  his  grief.  Do  I  seem  to  be 
speaking  of  it  in  a  disrespectful  or  flippant  way  ?  Then 
you  mistake  me.  He  had  been  outwitted.  He  had  de- 
sired, coaxed,  schemed,  haggled,  got  what  he  wanted,  and 
now  found  he  had  paid  too  much  for  his  bargain.  You 
don't  suppose  I  would  ask  you  to  laugh  at  that  man's 
grief?  It  is  you,  clumsy  cynic,  who  are  disposed  to 
sneer,  whilst,  it  may  be,  tears  of  genuine  sympathy  are 
trickling  down  this  nose  of  mine.  What  do  you  mean  by 
laughing?  If  you  saw  a  wounded  soldier  on  the  field 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU.  285 

of  battle,  would  you  laugh  ?  If  you  saw  a  ewe  robbed 
of  her  lamb,  would  you  laugh,  you  brute  ?  It  is  you  who 
are  the  cynic,  and  have  no  feeling :  and  you  sneer  because 
that  grief  is  unintelligible  to  you  which  touches  my  finer 
sensibility.  The  OLD  CLOTHES'  MAN  had  been  defeated 
in  one  of  the  daily  battles  of  his  most  interesting,  check- 
ered, adventurous  life. 

Have  you  ever  figured  to  yourself  what  such  a  life 
must  be  ?  The  pursuit  and  conquest  of  twopence  must 
be  the  most  eager  and  fascinating  of  occupations.  We 
might  all  engage  in  that  business  if  we  would.  Do  not 
whist-players,  for  example,  toil,  and  think,  and  lose  their 
temper  over  sixpenny  points?  They  bring  study,  nat- 
ural genius,  long  forethought,  memory,  and  careful  histor- 
ical experience  to  bear  upon  their  favorite  labor.  Don't 
tell  me  that  it  is  the  sixpenny  points,  and  five  shillings 
the  rub,  which  keep  them  for  hours  over  their  painted 
pasteboard.  It  is  the  desire  to  conquer.  Hours  pass  by. 
Night  glooms.  Dawn,  it  may  be,  rises  unheeded ;  and 
they  sit  calling  for  fresh  cards  at  the  Portland,  or  the 
Union,  while  waning  candles  sputter  in  the  sockets,  and 
languid  waiters  snooze  in  the  ante-room.  Sol  rises. 
Jones  has  lost  four  pounds ;  Brown  has  won  two ;  Rob- 
inson lurks  away  to  his  family  house  and  (mayhap,  in- 
dignant) Mrs.  R.  Hours  of  evening,  night,  morning, 
have  passed  away  whilst  they  have  been  waging  this  six- 
penny battle.  What  is  the  loss  of  four  pounds  to  Jones, 
the  gain  of  two  to  Brown  ?  B.  is,  perhaps,  so  rich  that 
two  pounds  more  or  less  are  as  naught  to  him ;  J.  is  so 
hopelessly  involved  that  to  win  four  pounds  cannot  ben- 
efit his  creditors,  or  alter  his  condition ;  but  they  play  for 
that  stake :  they  put  forward  their  best  energies  :  they 
ruff,  finesse  (what  are  the  technical  words,  and  how  do  I 


286  AUTOUR  DE  MON   CHAPEAU. 

know  ?)  It  is  but  a  sixpenny  game  if  you  like  ;  but  they 
want  to  win  it.  So  as  regards  my  friend  yonder  with  the 
hat.  He  stakes  his  money :  he  wishes  to  win  the  game, 
not  the  hat  merely.  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  he  is 
not  inspired  by  a  noble  ambition.  Ca3sar  wished  to  be 
first  in  a  village.  If  first  of  a  hundred  yokels,  why  not 
first  of  two  ?  And  my  friend,  the  old  clothes'  man,  wishes 
to  win  his  game,  as  well  as  to  turn  his  little  sixpence. 

Suppose  in  the  game  of  life  —  and  it  is  but  a  twopenny 
game  after  all  —  you  are  equally  eager  of  winning.  Shall 
you  be  ashamed  of  your  ambition,  or  glory  in  it  ?  There 
are  games,  too,  which  are  becoming  to  particular  periods 
of  life.  I  remember  in  the  days  of  our  youth,  when  my 
friend  Arthur  Bowler  was  an  eminent  cricketer.  Slim, 
swift,  strong,  well-built,  he  presented  a  goodly  appear- 
ance on  the  ground  in  his  flannel  uniform.  Militdsti  non 
sine  gloria,  Bowler  my  boy !  Hush  !  We  tell  no  tales. 
Mum  is  the  word.  Yonder  comes  Charley,  his  son. 
Now  Charley  his  son  has  taken  the  field,  and  is  famous 
among  the  eleven  of  his  school.  Bowler,  senior,  with  his 
capacious  waistcoat,  &c.,  waddling  after  a  ball,  would  pre- 
sent an  absurd  object,  whereas  it  does  the  eyes  good  to 
see  Bowler,  junior,  scouring  the  plain,  —  a  young  exem- 
plar of  joyful  health,  vigor,  activity.  The  old  boy  wisely 
contents  himself  with  amusements  more  becoming  his  age 
and  waist ;  takes  his  sober  ride  ;  visits  his  farm  soberly,  — 
busies  himself  about  his  pig.>,  his  ploughing,  his  peaches, 
or  what  not.  Very  small  routiniers  amusements  interest 
him  ;  and  (thank  goodness  !)  nature  provides  very  kindly 
for  kindly-disposed  fogies.  We  relish  those  things  which 
we  scorned  in  our  lusty  youth.  I  see  the  young  folks  of 
an  evening  kindling  and  glowing  over  their  delicious 
novels.  I  look  up  and  watch  the  eager  eye  flashing 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPE AU.  287 

down  the  page,  being,  for  my  part,  perfectly  contented 
with  my  twaddling  old  volume  of  Howell's  Letters  or 
the  Gentleman's  Magazine.  I  am  actually  arrived  at 
such  a  calm  frame  of  mind  that  I  like  batter-pudding. 
I  never  should  have  believed  it  possible;  but  it  is  so. 
Yet  a  little  while,  and  I  may  relish  water-gruel.  It  will 
be  the  age  of  man  lait  de  poule  et  mon  bonnet  de  nuit. 
And  then,  —  the  cotton  extinguisher  is  pulled  over  the 
old  noddle,  and  the  little  flame  of  life  is  popped  out. 

Don't  you  know  elderly  people  who  make  learned 
notes  in  Army  Lists,  Peerages,  and  the  like  ?  This  is 
the  batter-pudding,  water-gruel  of  old  age.  The  worn- 
out  old  digestion  does  not  care  for  stronger  food.  For- 
merly it  could  swallow  twelve  hours'  tough  reading,  and 
digest  an  encyclopaedia. 

If  I  had  children  to  educate,  I  would  at  ten  or  twelve 
years  of  age  have  a  professor  or  professoress  of  whist  for 
them,  and  cause  them  to  be  well  grounded  in  that  great 
and  useful  game.  You  cannot  learn  it  well  when  you 
are  old,  any  more  than  you  can  learn  dancing  or  billiards. 
In  our  house  at  home  we  youngsters  did  not  play  whist, 
because  we  were  dear,  obedient  children,  and  the  elders 
said  playing  at  cards  was  "  a  waste  of  time."  A  waste 
of  time,  my  good  people !  Allans  !  What  do  elderly 
home-keeping  people  do  of  a  night  after  dinner?  Dar- 
by gets  his  newspaper;  my  dear  Joan  her  Missionary 
Magazine,  or  her  volume  of  Cumming's  Sermons,  — 
and  don't  you  know  what  ensues?  Over  the  arm  of 
Darby's  arm-chair  the  paper  flutters  to  the  ground  unheed- 
ed, and  he  performs  the  trumpet  obbligato  que  vous  savez 
on  his  old  nose.  My  dear  old  Joan's  head  nods  over  her 
sermon  (awakening  though  the  doctrine  may  be).  Ding, 
ding,  ding :  can  that  be  ten  o'clock  ?  It  is  time  to  send 


288  AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU. 

the  servants  to  bed,  my  dear,  —  and  to  bed  master  and 
mistress  go  too.  But  they  have  not  wasted  their  time 
playing  at  cards.  O  no !  I  belong  to  a  club  where 
there  is  whist  of  a  night ;  and  not  a  little  amusing  is  it 
to  hear  Brown  speak  of  Thompson's  play,  and  vice  versa. 
But  there  is  one  man  —  Greatorex  let  us  call  him  — 
who  is  the  acknowledged  captain  and  primus  of  all  the 
whist-players.  We  all  secretly  admire  him.  I,  for  my 
part,  watch  him  in  private  life,  hearken  to  what  he  says, 
note  what  he  orders  for  dinner,  and  have  that  feeling  of 
awe  for  him  that  I  used  to  have  as  a  boy  for  the  cock  of 
the  school.  Not  play  at  whist?  Quette  triste  vieillesse 
vous  vous  preparez!  were  the  words  of  the  great  and 
good  Bishop  of  Autun.  I  can't.  It  is  too  late  now. 
Too  late  !  too  late  !  Ah  !  humiliating  confession  !  That 
joy  might  have  been  clutched,  but  the  life-stream  has 
swept  us  by  it,  —  the  swift  life-stream  rushing  to  the 
nearing  sea.  Too  late !  too  late !  Twentystone,  my 
boy !  When  you  read  in  the  papers  "  Valse  a  deux 
temps,"  and  all  the  fashionable  dances  taught  to  adults 
by  "  Miss  Lightfoots,"  don't  you  feel  that  you  would  like 
to  go  in  and  learn  ?  Ah,  it  is  too  late  !  You  have 
passed  the  choreas,  Master  Twentystone,  and  the  young 
people  are  dancing  without  you. 

I  don't  believe  much  of  what  my  Lord  Byron,  the 
poet,  says  ;  but  when  he  wrote  :  "  So,  for  a  good  old  gen- 
tlemanly vice,  I  think  I  shall  -  put  up  with  avarice,"  I 
think  his  lordship  meant  what  he  wrote,  and  if  he  prac- 
tised what  he  preached,  shall  not  quarrel  with  him.  As 
an  occupation  in  declining  years,  I  declare  I  think  saving 
is  useful,  amusing,  and  not  unbecoming.  It  must  be  a 
perpetual  amusement.  It  is  a  game  that  can  be  played 
by  day,  by  night,  at  home  and  abroad,  and  at  which  you 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU.  289 

must  win  in  the  long  run.  I  am  tired  and  want  a  cab. 
The  fare  to  my  house,  say,  is  two  shillings.  The  cabman 
will  naturally  want  half-a-crown.  I  pull  out  my  book. 
I  show  him  the  distance  is  exactly  three  miles  and  fifteen 
hundred  and  ninety  yards.  I  offer  him  my  card,  —  my 
winning  card.  As  he  retires  with  the  two  shillings,  blas- 
pheming inwardly,  every  curse  is  a  compliment  to  my 
skill.  I  have  played  him  and  beat  him ;  and  a  sixpence 
is  my  spoil,  and  just  reward.  This  is  a  game,  by  the 
way,  which  women  play  far  more  cleverly  than  we  do. 
But  what  an  interest  it  imparts  to  life !  During  the 
whole  drive  home  I  know  I  shall  have  my  game  at  the 
journey's  end ;  am  sure  of  my  hand,  and  shall  beat  my 
adversary.  Or,  I  can  play  in  another  way.  I  won't 
have  a  cab  at  all ;  I  will  wait  for  the  omnibus ;  I  will  be 
one  of  the  damp  fourteen  in  that  steaming  vehicle.  "  I 
will  wait  about  in  the  rain  for  an  hour,  and  'bus  after 
'bus  shall  pass,  but  I  will  not  be  beat.  I  will  have  a 
place,  and  get  it  at  length,  with  my  boots  wet  through, 
and  an  umbrella  dripping  between  my  legs.  I  have  a 
rheumatism,  a  cold,  a  sore-throat,  a  sulky  evening,  —  a 
doctor's  bill  to-morrow,  perhaps.  Yes,  but  I  have  won 
my  game,  and  am  gainer  of  a  shilling  on  this  rubber. 

If  you  play  this  game  all  through  life,  it  is  wonderful 
what  daily  interest  it  has,  and  amusing  occupation.  For 
instance,  my  wife  goes  to  sleep  after  dinner  over  her  vol- 
ume of  sermons.  As  soon  as  the  dear  soul  is  sound 
asleep,  I  advance  softly  and  puff  out  her  candle.  Her 
pure  dreams  will  be  all  the  happier  without  that  light ; 
and,  ?ay  she  sleeps  an  hour,  there  is  a  penny  gained. 

As  for  clothes,  parbleu  !  There  is  not  much  money  to 
be  saved  in  clothes,  for  the  fact  is,  as  a  man  advances  in 
life  —  as  he  becomes  an  ancient  Briton  (mark  the  pleas- 
13  s 


290  AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU. 

antry)  —  he  goes  without  clothes.  When  my  tailor  pro- 
poses something  in  the  way  of  a  change  of  raiment,  I 
laugh  in  his  face.  My  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons  will 
last  these  ten  years.  It  is  seedy  ?  What  then  ?  I 
don't  want  to  charm  anybody  in  particular.  You  say 
that  my  clothes  are  shabby  ?  What  do  I  care  ?  When 
I  wished  to  look  well  in  somebody's  eyes,  the  matter  may 
have  been  different.  But  now  when  I  receive  my  bill  of 
£10  (let  us  say)  at  the  year's  end,  and  contrast  it  with 
old  tailors'  reckonings,  I  feel  that  I  have  played  the 
game  with  master  tailor,  and  beat  him,  and  my  old 
clothes  are  a  token  of  the  victory. 

I  do  not  like  to  give  servants  board  wages,  though 
they  are  cheaper  than  household  bills ;  but  I  know  they 
save  out  of  board  wages,  and  so  beat  me.  This  shows 
that  it  is  not  the  money  but  the  game  which  interests  me. 
So  about  wine.  I  have  it  good  and  dear.  I  will  trouble 
you  to  tell  me  where  to  get  it  good  and  cheap.  You 
may  as  well  give  me  the  address  of  a  shop  where  I  can 
buy  meat  for  fourpence  a  pound,  or  sovereigns  for  fifteen 
shillings  a  piece.  At  the  game  of  auctions,  docks,  shy 
wine-merchants,  depend  on  it  there  is  no  winning ;  and  I 
would  as  soon  think  of  buying  jewelry  at  an  auction  in 
Fleet  Street  as  of  purchasing  wine  from  one  of  your 
dreadful  needy  wine  agents  such  as  infest  every  man's 
door.  Grudge  myself  good  wine  ?  As  soon  grudge  my 
horse  corn.  Merci !  that  would  be  a  very  losing  game 
indeed,  and  your  humble  servant  has  no  relish  for  such. 

But  in  the  very  pursuit  of  saving  there  must  be  a 
hundred  harmless  delights  and  pleasures  which  we  who 
are  careless  necessarily  forego.  What  do  you  know 
about  the  natural  history  of  your  household?  Upon 
your  honor  and  conscience,  do  you  know  the  price  of  a 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU.  291 

pound  of  butter?  Can  you  say  what  sugar  costs,  and 
how  much  your  family  consumes  and  ought  to  consume  ? 
How  much  lard  do  you  use  in  your  house  ?  As  I  think 
on  these  subjects  I  own  I  hang  down  the  head  of  shame. 
I  suppose  for  a  moment  that  you,  who  are  reading  this, 
are  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  and  paterfamilias.  Can 
you  answer  the  above  questions?  You  know,  sir,  you 
cannot.  Now  turn  round,  lay  down  the  book,  and  sud- 
denly ask  Mrs.  Jones  and  your  daughters  if  they  can  an- 
swer ?  They  cannot.  They  look  at  one  another.  They 
pretend  they  can  answer.  They  can  tell  you  the  plot 
and  principal  characters  of  the  last  novel.  Some  of 
them  know  something  about  history,  geology,  and  so 
forth.  But  of  the  natural  history  of  home  —  Nichts,  and 
for  shame  on  you  all !  Honnis  soyez  !  For  shame  on 
you  ?  for  shame  on  us  ! 

In  the  early  morning  I  hear  a  sort  of  call  or  jodel  un- 
der my  window,  and  know  't  is  the  matutinal  milkman 
leaving  his  can  at  my  gate.  O  household  gods !  have  I 
lived  all  these  years  and  don't  know  the  price  or  the 
quantity  of  the  milk  which  is  delivered  in  that  can? 
Why  don't  I  know  ?  As  I  live,  if  I  live  till  to-morrow 
morning,  as  soon  as  I  hear  the  call  of  Lactantius,  I  will 
dash  out  upon  him.  How  many  cows?  How  much 
milk,  on  an  average,  all  the  year  round  ?  What  rent  ? 
What  cost  of  food  and  dairy  servants  ?  What  loss  of 
animals,  and  average  cost  of  purchase  ?  If  I  interested 
myself  properly  about  my  pint  (or  hogshead,  whatever  it 
be)  of  milk,  all  this  knowledge  would  ensue ;  all  this  ad- 
ditional interest  in  life.  What  is  this  talk  of  my  friend, 
Mr.  Lewes,  about  objects  at  the  seaside,  and  so  forth? 
Objects  at  the  seaside  ?  Objects  at  the  area-bell ;  ob- 
jects before  my  nose ;  objects  which  the  butcher  brings 


292  AUTOUE  DE  MON  CHAPEAU. 

me  in  his  tray ;  which  the  cook  dresses  and  puts  down 
before  me,  and  over  which  I  say  grace !  My  daily  life  is 
surrounded  with  objects  which  ought  to  interest  me.  The 
pudding  I  eat  (or  refuse,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there,  and, 
between  ourselves,  what  I  have  said  about  batter-pudding 
may  be  taken  cum  grano, — we  are  not  come  to  that  yet,  ex- 
cept for  the  sake  of  argument  or  illustration),  —  the  pud- 
ding, I  say,  on  my  plate,  the  eggs  that  made  it,  the  fire  that 
cooked  it,  the  tablecloth  on  which  it  is  laid,  and  so  forth, 
—  are  each  and  all  of  these  objects  a  knowledge  of  which 
I  may  acquire,  —  a  knowledge  of  the  cost  and  produc- 
tion of  which  I  might  advantageously  learn?  To  the 
man  who  does  know  these  things,  I  say  the  interest  of 
life  is  prodigiously  increased.  The  milkman  becomes  a 
study  to  him ;  the  baker  a  being  he  curiously  and  tender- 
ly examines.  Go,  Lewes,  and  clap  a  hideous  sea-anem- 
one into  a  glass ;  I  will  put  a  cabman  under  mine,  and 
make  a  vivisection  of  a  butcher.  O  Lares,  Penates,  and 
gentle  household  gods,  teach  me  to  sympathize  with  all 
that  comes  within  my  doors !  Give  me  an  interest  in  the 
butcher's  book.  Let  me  look  forward  to  the  ensuing 
number  of  the  grocer's  account  with  eagerness.  It  seems 
ungrateful  to  my  kitchen-chimney  not  to  know  the  cost 
of  sweeping  it ;  and  I  trust  that  many  a  man  who  reads 
this,  and  muses  on  it,  will  feel,  like  the  writer,  ashamed 
of  himself,  and  hang  down  his  head  humbly. 

Now,  if  to  this  household  game  you  could  add  a  little 
money  interest,  the  amusement  would  be  increased  far 
beyond  the  mere  money  value,  as  a  game  at  cards  for 
sixpence  is  better  than  a  rubber  for  nothing.  If  you  can 
interest  yourself  about  sixpence,  all  life  is  invested  with 
a  new  excitement.  From  sunrise  to  sleeping  you  can 
always  be  playing  that  game,  —  with  butcher,  baker, 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU.  293 

coal-merchant,  cabman,  omnibus  man,  —  nay,  diamond- 
merchant  and  stockbroker.  You  can  bargain  for  a  guinea 
over  the  price  of  a  diamond  necklace,  or  for  a  sixteenth 
per  cent  in  a  transaction  at  the  Stock  Exchange.  We 
all  know  men  who  have  this  faculty  who  are  not  ungener- 
ous with  their  money.  They  give  it  on  great  occasions. 
They  are  more  able  to  help  than  you  and  I  who  spend 
ours,  and  say  to  poor  Prodigal,  who  conies  to  us  out  at 
elbow,  "  My  dear  fellow,  I  should  have  been  delighted ; 
but  I  have  already  anticipated  my  quarter,  and  am  going 
to  ask  Screwby  if  he  can  do  anything  for  me." 

In  this  delightful,  wholesome,  ever-novel,  twopenny 
game,  there  is  a  danger  of  excess,  as  there  is  in  every 
other  pastime  or  occupation  of  life.  If  you  grow  too 
eager  for  your  twopence,  the  acquisition  or  the  loss  of  it 
may  affect  your  peace  of  mind,  and  peace  of  mind  is  bet- 
ter than  any  amount  of  twopences.  My  friend,  the  old 
clothes'  man,  whose  agonies  over  the  hat  have  led  to  this 
rambling  disquisition,  has,  I  very  much  fear,  by  a  too 
eager  pursuit  of  small  profits,  disturbed  the  equanimity 
of  a  mind  that  ought  to  be  easy  and  happy.  "  Had  I 
stood  out,"  he  thinks,  "  I  might  have  had  the  hat  for 
threepence,"  and  he  doubts  whether,  having  given  four- 
pence  for  it,  he  will  ever  get  back  his  money.  My  good 
Shadrach,  if  you  go  through  life  passionately  deploring 
the  irrevocable,  and  allow  yesterday's  transactions  to  em- 
bitter the  cheerfulness  of  to-day  and  to-morrow,  —  as 
lieve  walk  down  to  the  Seine,  souse  in,  hats,  body, 
clothes-bag,  and  all,  and  put  an  end  to  your  sorrows  and 
sordid  cares.  Before  and  since  Mr.  Franklin  wrote  his 
pretty  apologue  of  the  Whistle,  have  we  not  all  made 
bargains  of  which  we  repented,  and  coveted  and  acquired 
objects  for  which  we  have  paid  too  dearly?  Who  has 


294  AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU. 

not  purchased  his  hat  in  some  market  or  other  ?  There 
is  General  M'Clellan's  cocked  hat  for  example.  I  dare 
say  he  was  eager  enough  to  wear  it,  and  he  has  learned 
that  it  is  by  no  means  cheerful  wear.  There  were  the 
military  beavers  of  Messeigneurs  of  Orleans :  they  wore 
them  gallantly  in  the  face  of  battle ;  but  I  suspect  they 
were  glad  enough  to  pitch  them  into  the  James  River, 
and  come  home  in  mufti.  Ah,  mes  amis  !  a  chacun  son 
schakot !  I  was  looking  at  a  bishop  the  other  day,  and 
thinking :  "  My  right  reverend  lord,  that  broad-brim  and 
rosette  must  bind  your  great  broad  forehead  very  tightly, 
and  give  you  many  a  headache.  A  good  easy  wide- 
awake were  better  for  you,  and  I  would  like  to  see  that 
honest  face  with  a  cutty  pipe  in  the  middle  of  it."  There 
is  my  Lord  Mayor.  My  once  dear  lord,  my  kind  friend, 
when  your  two  years'  reign  was  over,  did  not  you  jump 
for  joy,  and  fling  your  chapeau-bras  out  of  window :  and 
has  n't  that  hat  cost  you  a  pretty  bit  of  money  ?  There, 
in  a  splendid  travelling  chariot,  in  the  sweetest  bonnet, 
all  trimmed  with  orange-blossoms  and  Chantilly  lace,  sits 
my  Lady  Rosa,  with  old  Lord  Snowden  by  her  side. 
Ah,  Rosa !  what  a  price  have  you  paid  for  that  hat  which 
you  wear ;  and  is  your  ladyship's  coronet  not  purchased 
too  dear?  Enough  of  hats.  Sir,  or  Madam,  I  take  off 
mine,  and  salute  you  with  profound  respect. 


ON  A  PEAL   OF    BELLS. 

S  some  bells  in  a  church  hard  by  are  making  a 
great  holiday  clanging  in  the  summer  after- 
noon, I  am  reminded  somehow  of  a  July  day, 
a  garden,  and  a  great  clanging  of  bells  years 
and  years  ago,  on  the  very  day  when  George  IV.  was 
crowned.  I  remember  a  little  boy  lying  in  that  garden, 
reading  his  first  novel.  It  was  called  "The  Scottish 
Chiefs."  The  little  boy  (who  is  now  ancient  and  not  lit- 
tle) read  this  book  in  the  summer-house  of  his  great  grand- 
mamma. She  was  eighty  years  of  age  then.  A  most 
lovely  and  picturesque  old  lady,  with  a  long  tortoise-shell 
cane,  with  a  little  puff,  or  tour,  of  snow  white  (or  was  it 
powdered  ?)  hair  under  her  cap,  with  the  prettiest  little 
black  velvet  slippers  and  high  heels  you  ever  saw.  She 
had  a  grandson,  a  lieutenant  in  the  navy ;  son  of  her 
son,  a  captain  in  the  navy  ;  grandson  of  her  husband,  a 
captain  in  the  navy.  She  lived  for  scores  and  scores  of 
years  in  a  dear  little  old  Hampshire  town  inhabited  by 
the  wives,  widows,  daughters  of  navy  captains,  admirals, 
lieutenants.  Dear  me  !  Don't  I  remember  Mrs.  Duval, 
widow  of  Admiral  Duval ;  and  the  Miss  Dennets,  at  the 
Great  House  at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  Admiral  Den- 
net's  daughters ;  and  the  Miss  Barrys,  the  late  Captain 
Barry's  daughters  ;  and  the  good  old  Miss  Maskews,  Ad- 


296  ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS. 

miral  Maskews'  daughter  ;  and  that  dear  little  Miss  Nor- 
val,  and  the  kind  Miss  Bookers,  one  of  whom  married 
Captain,  now  Admiral,  Sir  Henry  Excellent,  K.  C.  B.  ? 
Far,  far  away  into  the  past  I  look  and  seek  the  little 
town  with  its  friendly  glimmer.  That  town  was  so 
like  a  novel  of  Miss  Austen's,  that  I  wonder  was  she  born 
and  bred  there  ?  No,  we  should  have  known,  and  the 
good  old  ladies  would  have  pronounced  her  to  be  a  little 
idle  thing,  occupied  with  her  silly  books  and  neglecting 
her  housekeeping.  There  were  other  towns  in  England, 
no  doubt,  where  dwelt  the  widows  and  wives  of  other 
navy  captains,  where  they  tattled,  loved  each  other,  and 
quarrelled ;  talked  about  Betty,  the  maid,  and  her  fine 
ribbons,  indeed  !  Took  their  dish  of  tea  at  six,  played  at 
quadrille  every  night  till  ten,  when  there  was  a  little  bit 
of  supper,  after  which  Betty  came  with  the  lantern ;  and 
next  day  came,  and  next,  and  next,  and  so  forth,  until  a 
day  arrived  when  the  lantern  was  out,  when  Betty  came 
no  more :  all  that  little  company  sank  to  rest  under  the 
daisies,  whither  some  folks  will  presently  follow  them. 
How  did  they  live  to  be  so  old,  those  good  people  ?  Moi 
qui  vous  parle,  I  perfectly  recollect  old  Mr.  Gilbert,  who 
had  been  to  sea  with  Captain  Cook ;  and  Captain  Cook, 
as  you  justly  observe,  dear  miss,  quoting  out  of  your 
Hangnail's  Questions,  was  murdered  by  the  natives  of 
Owhyhee,  anno  1779.  Ah  !  don't  you  remember  his  pic- 
ture, standing  on  the  sea-shore,  in  tights  and  gaiters,  with 
a  musket  in  his  hand,  pointing  to  his  people  not  to  fire 
from  the  boats,  whilst  a  great  tattooed  savage  is  going  to 
stab  him  in  the  back  ?  Don't  you  remember  those  houris 
dancing  before  him  and  the  other  officers  at  the  great 
Otaheite  ball  ?  Don't  you  know  that  Cook  was  at  the 
siege  of  Quebec,  with  the  glorious  Wolfe,  who  fought  un- 


ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS.  297 

der  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  whose  royal  father  was  a 
distinguished  officer  at  Ramillies,  before  he  commanded 
in  chief  at  Dettingen  ?  Huzzay' !  Give  it  them,  my 
lads  !  My  horse  is  down  ?  Then  I  know  I  shall  not  run 
away.  Do  the  French  run  ?  then  I  die  content.  Stop. 
Wo  !  Quo  me  rapis  f  My  Pegasus  is  galloping  off, 
goodness  knows  where,  like  his  Majesty's  charger  at  Det- 
tingen. 

How  do  these  rich  historical  and  personal  reminiscences 
come  out  of  the  subject  at  present  in  hand  ?  What  is  that 
subject,  by  the  way  ?  My  dear  friend,  if  you  look  at  the 
last  essaykin  (though  you  may  leave  it  alone,  and  I  shall 
not  be  in  the  least  surprised  or  offended),  if  you  look  at 
the  last  paper  where  the  writer  imagines  Athos  and  Por- 
thos,  Dalgetty  and  Ivanhoe,  Amelia  and  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  Don  Quixote  and  Sir  Roger,  walking  in  at  the 
garden- window,  you  will  at  once  perceive  that  NOVELS 
and  their  heroes  and  heroines  are  our  present  subject  of 
discourse,  into  which  we  will  presently  plunge.  Are  you 
one  of  us,  dear  sir,  and  do  you  love  novel-reading  ?  To 
be  reminded  of  your  first  novel  will  surely  be  a  pleasure 
to  you.  Hush  !  I  never  read  quite  to  the  end  of  my  first, 
"The  Scottish  Chiefs."  I  couldn't.  I  peeped  in  an 
alarmed  furtive  manner  at  some  of  the  closing  pages. 
Miss  Porter,  like  a  kind,  dear,  tender-hearted  creature, 
would  not  have  Wallace's  head  chopped  off  at  the  end  of 
Vol.  V.  She  made  him  die  in  prison,*  and  if  I  remem- 
ber right  (protesting  I  have  not  read  the  book  for  forty- 

*  I  find,  on  reference  to  the  novel,  that  Sir  William  died  on  the  scaf- 
fold, not  in  prison.  His  last  words  were :  "  '  My  prayer  is  heard. 
Life's  cord  is  cut  by  Heaven.  Helen!  Helen!  May  Heaven  preserve 
my  country,  and — .'  He  stopped.  He  fell.  And  with  that  mighty 
shock  the  scaffold  shook  to  its  foundation." 
13* 


298  ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS. 

two  or  three  years),  Robert  Bruce  made  a  speech  to  his 
soldiers,  in  which  he  said,  "And  Bannockburn  shall  equal 
Cambuskenrieth."  *  But  I  repeat,  I  could  not  read  the 
end  of  the  fifth  volume  of  that  dear  delightful  book  for 
crying.  Good  heavens  !  It  was  as  sad,  as  sad  as  going 
back  to  school. 

The  glorious  Scott  cycle  of  romances  came  to  me  some 
four  or  five  years  afterwards ;  and  I  think  boys  of  our 
year  were  specially  fortunate  in  coming  upon  those  de- 
lightful books  at  that  special  time  when  we  could  best 
enjoy  them.  O,  that  sunshiny  bench  on  half-holidays, 
with  Claverhouse  or  Ivanhoe  for  a  companion !  I  have 
remarked  of  very  late  days  some  little  men  in  a  great 
state  of  delectation  over  the  romances  of  Captain  Mayne 
Reid,  and  Gustave  Aimard's  Prairie  and  Indian  Stories, 
and,  during  occasional  holiday  visits,  lurking  off  to  bed 
with  the  volume  under  their  arms.  But  are  those  In- 
dians and  warriors  so  terrible  as  our  Indians  and  war- 
riors were  ?  (I  say,  are  they  ?  Young  gentlemen,  mind, 
I  do  not  say  they  are  not.)  But  as  an  oldster  I  can  be 
heartily  thankful  for  the  novels  of  the  1-10  Geo.  IV.,  let 
us  say,  and  so  downward  to  a  period  not  unremote.  Let 

*  The  remark  of  Bruce  (which  I  protest  I  had  not  read  for  forty-two 
years),  I  find  to  be  as  follows:  "  When  this  was  uttered  by  the  Eng- 
lish heralds,  Bruce  turned  to  Ruthven,  with  an  heroic  smile.  '  Let  him 
come,  my  brave  barons  !  and  he  shall  find  that  Bannockburn  shall 
page  with  Cambuskenneth  ! ' "  In  the  same  amiable  author's  famous 
novel  of  "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  there  is  more  crying  than  in  any 
novel  I  ever  remember  to  have  read.  See,  for  example,  the  last  page. 
.  .  .  .  "  Incapable  of  speaking,  Thaddeus  led  his  wife  back  to  her 
Carriage His  tears  gushed  out  in  spite  of  himself,  and  min- 
gling with  hers,  poured  those  thanks,  those  assurances,  of  animated 
approbation  through  her  heart,  which  made  it  even  ache  with  excess 
of  happiness."  ....  And  a  sentence  or  two  further,  "  Kosciusko 
did  bless  him,  and  embalmed  the  benediction  with  a  shower  of  tears." 


ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS.  299 

us  see ;  there  is,  first,  our  dear  Scott.     Whom  do  I  love 
in  the  works  of  that  dear  old  master  ?     Amo  — 

The  Baron  of  Bradwardine,  and  Fergus.  (Captain 
Waverley  is  certainly  very  mild.) 

Amo  Ivanhoe  ;  LOCKSLEY  ;  the  Templar. 

Amo  Quentin  Durward,  and  specially  Quentin's  uncle, 
who  brought  the  Boar  to  bay.  I  forget  the  gentleman's 
name. 

I  have  never  cared  for  the  Master  of  Ravenswood,  or 
fetched  his  hat  out  of  the  water  since  he  dropped  it  there 
when  I  last  met  him  (circa  1825). 

Amo  SALADIN  and  the  Scotch  knight  in  "The  Talis- 
man." The  Sultan  best. 

Amo  CLAVERHOUSE. 

Amo  MAJOR  DALGETTY.  Delightful  Major!  To 
think  of  him  is  to  desire  to  jump  up,  run  to  the  book,  and 
get  the  volume  down  from  the  shelf.  About  all  those 
heroes  of  Scott,  what  a  manly  bloom  there  is,  and  honor- 
able modesty !  They  are  not  at  all  heroic.  They  seem 
to  blush  somehow  in  their  position  of  hero,  and  as  it  were 
to  say,  "  Since  it  must  be  done,  here  goes ! "  They  are 
handsome,  modest,  upright,  simple,  courageous,  not  too 
clever.  If  I  were  a  mother  (which  is  absurd),  I  should 
like  to  be  mother-in-law  to  several  young  men  of  the 
"Walter- Scott-hero  sort. 

Much  as  I  like  those  most  unassuming,  manly,  unpre- 
tending gentlemen,  I  have  to  own  that  I  think  the  heroes 
of  another  writer,  viz. 
LEATHER-STOCKING, 
UNCAS, 
HARDHEART, 
TOM  COFFIN, 
are  quite  the  equals  of  Scott's  men:  perhaps  Leather- 


300  ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS. 

stocking  is  better  than  any  one  in  "  Scott's  lot."  La 
Longue  Carabine  is  one  of  the  great  prize-men  of  fiction. 
He  ranks  with  your  Uncle  Toby,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley, 
Falstaff,  —  heroic  figures,  all,  —  American  or  British, 
and  the  artist  has  deserved  well  of  his  country  who  de- 
vised them. 

At  school,  in  my  time,  there  was  a  public  day,  when 
the  boys'  relatives,  an  examining  bigwig  or  two  from  the 
universities,  old  school-fellows,  and  so  forth,  came  to  the 
place.  The  boys  were  all  paraded ;  prizes  were  admin- 
istered ;  each  lad  being  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  —  and 
magnificent  dandies,  I  promise  you,  some  of  us  were.  O, 
the  chubby  cheeks,  clean  collars,  glossy  new  raiment, 
beaming  faces,  glorious  in  youth, — fit  tueri  ccelum, — 
bright  with  truth,  and  mirth,  and  honor !  To  see  a  hun- 
dred boys  marshalled  in  a  chapel  or  old  hall ;  to  hear  their 
sweet  fresh  voices  when  they  chant,  and  look  in  their 
brave  calm  faces, — I  say,  does  not  the  sight  and  sound  of 
them  smite  you,  somehow,  with  a  pang  of  exquisite  kind- 
ness? ....  Well.  As  about  boys,  so  about  Novel- 
ists. I  fancy  the  boys  of  Parnassus  School  all  paraded. 
I  am  a  lower  boy  myself  in  that  academy.  I  like  our 
fellows  to  look  well,  upright,  gentlemanlike.  There  is 
Master  Fielding,  —  he  with  the  black  eye.  What  a  mag- 
nificent build  of  a  boy !  There  is  Master  Scott,  one  of 
the  heads  of  the  school.  Did  you  ever  see  the  fellow 
more  hearty  and  manly?  Yonder  lean,  shambling,  ca- 
daverous lad,  who  is  always  borrowing  money,  telling 
lies,  leering  after  the  housemaids,  is  Master  Laurence 
Sterne,  —  a  bishop's  grandson,  and  himself  intended  for 
the  Church ;  for  shame,  you  little  reprobate !  But  what 
a  genius  the  fellow  has !  Let  him  have  a  sound  flogging, 
and  as  soon  as  the  young  scamp  is  out  of  the  whipping- 


ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS.  301 

room,  give  him  a  gold  medal.  Such  would  be  my  prac- 
tice if  I  were  Doctor  Birch,  and  master  of  the  school. 

Let  us  drop  this  school  metaphor,  this  birch  and  all 
pertaining  thereto.  Our  subject,  I  beg  leave  to  remind 
the  reader's  humble  servant,  is  novel  heroes  and  heroines. 
How  do  you  like  your  heroes,  ladies  ?  Gentlemen,  what 
novel  heroines  do  you  prefer?  When  I  set  this  essay 
going,  I  sent  the  above  question  to  two  of  the  most  invet- 
erate novel-readers  of  my  acquaintance.  The  gentleman 
refers  me  to  Miss  Austen;  the  lady  says  Athos,  Guy 
Livingstone,  and  (pardon  my  rosy  blushes)  Colonel  Es- 
mond, and  owns  that  in  youth  she  was  very  much  in  love 
with  Valancourt. 

Valancourt,  and  who  was  he  ?  cry  the  young  people. 
Valancourt,  my  dears,  was  the  hero  of  one  of  the  most 
famous  romances  which  ever  was  published  in  this  coun- 
try. The  beauty  and  elegance  of  Valancourt  made  your 
young  grandmammas'  gentle  hearts  to  beat  with  respect- 
ful sympathy.  He  and  his  glory  have  passed  away. 
Ah,  woe  is  me  that  the  glory  of  novels  should  ever  de- 
cay ;  that  dust  should  gather  round  them  on  the  shelves ; 
that  the  annual  checks  from  Messieurs  the  publishers 
should  dwindle,  dwindle  !  Inquire  at  Mudie's,  or  the 
London  Library,  who  asks  for  "  The  Mysteries  of  Udol- 
pho  "  now  ?  Have  not  even  "  The  Mysteries  of  Paris  " 
ceased  to  frighten  ?  Alas,  our  novels  are  but  for  a  sea- 
son ;  and  I  know  characters,  whom  a  painful  modesty 
forbids  me  to  mention,  who  shall  go  to  limbo  along 
with  Valancourt,  and  Doricourt,  and  Thaddeus  of  War- 
saw. 

A  dear  old  sentimental  friend,  with  whom  I  discoursed 
on  the  subject  of  novels  yesterday,  said  that  her  favorite 
hero  was  Lord  Orville,  in  "  Evelina,"  that  novel  which 


302  ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS. 

Dr.  Johnson  loved  so.  I  took  down  the  book  from  a 
dusty  old  crypt  at  a  club,  where  Mrs  Barbauld's  novelists 
repose ;  and  this  is  the  kind  of  thing,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, in  which  your  ancestors  found  pleasure :  — 

"  And  here,  whilst  I  was  looking  for  the  books,  I  was 
followed  by  Lord  Orville.  He  shut  the  door  after  he 
came  in,  and  approaching  me  with  a  look  of  anxiety, 
said,  '  Is  this  true,  Miss  Anville,  —  are  you  going  ? ' 

" '  I  believe  so,  my  lord,'  said  I,  still  looking  for  the 
books. 

"  *  So  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly :  must  I  lose  you  ? ' 

"  *  No  great  loss,  my  lord,'  said  I,  endeavoring  to  speak 
cheerfully. 

"'Is  it  possible,'  said  he  gravely,  'Miss  Anville  can 
doubt  my  sincerity  ? ' 

"'I  can't  imagine,'  cried  I,  'what  Mrs.  Selwyn  has 
done  with  those  books.' 

"  *  Would  to  heaven,'  continued  he,  '  I  might  flatter 
myself  you  would  allow  me  to  prove  it ! ' 

"  '  I  must  run  up  stairs,'  cried  I,  greatly  confused,  '  and 
ask  what  she  has  done  with  them.' 

" '  You  are  going,  then,'  cried  he,  taking  my  hand, 
*  and  you  give  me  not  the  smallest  hope  of  any  return  ! 
Will  you  not,  my  too  lovely  friend,  will  you  not  teach 
me,  with  fortitude  like  your  own,  to  support  your  ab- 
sence ? ' 

"  *  My  lord,'  cried  I,  endeavoring  to  disengage  my 
hand,  '  pray  let  me  go  ! ' 

" '  I  will,'  cried  he,  to  my  inexpressible  confusion, 
dropping  on  one  knee,  *  if  you  wish  me  to  leave  you.' 

" '  O,  my  lord,'  exclaimed  I,  '  rise,  I  beseech  you ;  rise. 
Surely  your  lordship  is  not  so  cruel  as  to  mock  me.' 

" '  Mock  you ! '  repeated  he  earnestly, '  no,  I  revere  you. 


ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS.  303 

I  esteem  and  admire  you  above  all  human  beings !  You 
are  the  friend  to  whom  my  soul  is  attached,  as  to  its  bet- 
ter half.  You  are  the  most  amiable,  the  most  perfect  of 
women ;  and  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  language  has  the 
power  of  telling.' 

"  I  attempt  not  to  describe  my  sensations  at  that  mo- 
ment ;  I  scarce  breathed ;    I  doubted  if  I  existed ;   the.    * 
blood  forsook  my  cheeks,  and  my  feet  refused  to  sustain 
me.     Lord  Orville  hastily  rising  supported  me  to  a  chair, 
upon  which  I  sank  almost  lifeless. 

"  I  cannot  write  the  scene  that  followed,  though  every 
word  is  engraven  on  my  heart;  but  his  protestations,  his 
expressions,  were  too  flattering  for  repetition ;  nor  would 
he,  in  spite  of  my  repeated  efforts  to  leave  him,  suffer  me 
to  escape ;  in  short,  my  dear  sir,  I  was  not  proof  against 
his  solicitations,  and  he  drew  from  me  the  most  sacred 
secret  of  my  heart ! "  * 

*  Contrast  this  old  perfumed,  powdered  D' Arblay  conversation  with 
the  present  modern  talk.  If  the  two  young  people  wished  to  hide  their 
emotions  now-a-days,  and  express  themselves  in  modest  language,  the 
story  would  run :  — 

"  Whilst  I  was  looking  for  the  books,  Lord  Orville  came  in.  He 
looked  uncommonly  down  in  the  mouth,  as  he  said:  'Is  this  true, 
Miss  Anville ;  are  you  going  to  cut  ? ' 

" '  To  absquatulate,  Lord  Orville,'  said  I,  still  pretending  that  I  was 
looking  for  the  books. 

"  4  You  're  very  quick  about  it,'  said  he. 

"  '  Guess  it 's  no  great  loss,'  I  remarked,  as  cheerfully  as  I  could. 

"'You  don't  think  I  'm  chaffing?'  said  Orville,  with  much  emo- 
tion. 

"  '  What  has  Mrs  Selwyn  done  with  the  books  ?  '  I  went  on. 

"  '  What,  going?  '  said  he, '  and  going  for  good?  I  wish  I  was  such 
a  good-plucked  one  as  you,  Miss  Anville,'  "  &c. 

The  conversation,  you  perceive,  might  be  easily  written  down  to 
this  key ;  and  if  the  hero  and  heroine  were  modern,  they  would  not 
be  suffered  to  go  through  their  dialogue  on  stilts,  but  would  converse 
in  the  natural,  graceful  way  at  present  customary.  By  the  way,  what 


304  ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS. 

Other  people  may  not  much  like  this  extract,  madam, 
from  your  favorite  novel,  but  when  you  come  to  read  it, 
you  will  like  it.  I  suspect  that  when  you  read  that  book 
which  you  so  love,  you  read  it  a  deux.  Did  you  not 
yourself  pass  a  winter  at  Bath,  when  you  were  the  belle 
of  the  assembly  ?  Was  there  not  a  Lord  Orville  in  your 
case,  too?  As  you  think  of  him  eleven  lustres  pass 
away.  You  look  at  him  with  the  bright  eyes  of  those 
days,  and  your  hero  stands  before  you,  the  brave,  the 
accomplished,  the  simple,  the  true  gentleman ;  and  he 
makes  the  most  elegant  of  bows  to  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful young  women  the  world  ever  saw  ;  and  he  leads  you 
out  to  the  cotillon,  to  the  dear,  unforgotten  music.  Hark 
to  the  horns  of  Elfland,  blowing,  blowing !  Bonne  vieiUe, 
you  remember  their  melody,  and  your  heart-strings  thrill 
with  it  still. 

Of  your  heroic  heroes,  I  think  our  friend  Monsigneur 
Athos,  Count  de  la  Fere,  is  my  favorite.  I  have  read 
about  him  from  sunrise  to  sunset  with  the  utmost  content- 
ment of  mind.  He  has  passed  through  how  many  vol- 
umes ?  Forty  ?  Fifty  ?  I  wish  for  my  part  there  were  a 
hundred  more,  and  would  never  tire  of  him  rescuing  pris- 
oners, punishing  ruffians,  and  running  scoundrels  through 
the  midriff  with  his  most  graceful  rapier.  Ah,  Athos,  Por- 
thos,  and  Aramis,  you  are  a  magnificent'  trio.  I  think  I 
like  d'Artagnan  in  his  own  memoirs  best.  I  bought  him 
years  and  years  ago,  price  fivepence,  in  a  little  parchment- 

a  strange  custom  that  is  in  modern  lady  novelists  to  make  the  men 
bully  the  women !  In  the  time  of  Miss  Porter  and  Madame  D'Arblay, 
we  have  respect,  profound  bows  and  courtesies,  graceful  courtesy  from 
men  to  women.  In  the  time  of  Miss  Bronte,  absolute  rudeness.  Is  it 
true,  mesdames,  that  you  like  rudeness,  and  are  pleased  at  being  ill- 
used  by  men?  I  could  point  to  more  than  one  lady  novelist  who  so 
represents  you. 


ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS.  305 

covered  Cologne-printed  volume,  at  a  stall  in  Gray's-inn- 
lane.  Dumas  glorifies  him  and  makes  a  marshal  of  him  ; 
if  I  remember  rightly,  the  original  D'Artagnan  was  a 
needy  adventurer,  who  died  in  exile  very  early  in  Louis 
XIV.'s  reign.  Did  you  ever  read  the  "  Chevalier  d'Har- 
menthal "  ?  Did  you  ever  read  the  "  Tulipe  Noire,"  as 
modest  as  a  story  by  Miss  Edgeworth  ?  I  think  of  the 
prodigal  banquets  to  which  this  Lucullus  of  a  man  has  in- 
vited me,  with  thanks  and  wonder.  To  what  a  series  of 
splendid  entertainments  he  has  treated  me  !  Where  does 
he  find  the  money  for  these  prodigious  feasts  ?  They  say 
that  all  the  works  bearing  Dumas's  name  are  not  written 
by  him.  Well  ?  Does  not  the  chief  cook  have  aides 
under  him  ?  Did  not  Rubens's  pupils  paint  on  his  can- 
vases ?  Had  not  Lawrence  assistants  for  his  back- 
grounds ?  For  myself,  being  also  du  metier,  I  confess  I 
would  often  like  to  have  a  competent,  respectable,  and 
rapid  clerk  for  the  business  part  of  my  novels  ;  and  on  his 
arrival,  at  eleven  o'clock,  would  say,  "  Mr.  Jones,  if  you 
please,  the  archbishop  must  die  this  morning  in  about  five 
pages.  Turn  to  article  '  Dropsy '  (or  what  you  will)  in 
Encyclopedia.  Take  care  there  are  no  medical  blunders 
in  his  death.  Group  his  daughters,  physicians,  and  chap- 
lains round  him.  In  Wales's  '  London,'  letter  B,  third 
shelf,  you  will  find  an  account  of  Lambeth,  and  some 
prints  of  the  place.  Color  in  with  local  coloring.  The 
daughter  will  come  down,  and  speak  to  her  lover  in  his 
wherry  at  Lambeth  Stairs,"  &c.,  &c.  Jones  (an  intelli- 
gent young  man)  examines  the  medical,  historical,  topo- 
graphical books  necessary ;  his  chief  points  out  to  him  in 
Jeremy  Taylor  (fol.,  London,  .MDCLV.)  a  few  remarks,  such 
as  might  befit  a  dear  old  archbishop  departing  this  life. 
When  I  come  back  to  dress  for  dinner,  the  archbishop  is 

T 


306  ON  A  PEAL   OF  BELLS. 

dead  on  my  table  in  five  pages ;  medicine,  topography, 
theology,  all  right,  and  Jones  has  gone  home  to  his  family 
some  hours.  Sir  Christopher  is  the  architect  of  St. 
Paul's.  He  has  not  laid  the  stones  or  carried  up  the 
mortar.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  carpenter's  and  joiner's 
work  in  novels  which  surely  a  smart  professional  hand 
might  supply.  A  smart  professional  hand  ?  I  give  you 
my  word,  there  seem  to  me  parts  of  novels,  —  let  us  say 
the  love-making,  the  "  business,"  the  villain  in  the  cup- 
board, and  so  forth,  —  which  I  should  like  to  order  John 
Footman  to  take  in  hand,  as  I  desire  him  to  bring  the 
coals  and  polish  the  boots.  Ask  me  indeed  to  pop  a  rob- 
ber under  a  bed,  to  hide  a  will  which  shall  be  forthcoming 
in  due  season,  or  at  my  time  of  life  to  write  a  namby- 
pamby  love  conversation  between  Emily  and  Lord  Ar- 
thur !  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself,  and  especially  when  my 
business  obliges  me  to  do  the  love  passages,  I  blush  so, 
though  quite  alone  in  my  study,  that  you  would  fancy  I 
was  going  off  in  an  apoplexy.  Are  authors  affected  by 
their  own  works.?  I  don't  know  about  other  gentlemen, 
but  if  I  make  a  joke  myself  I  cry ;  if  I  write  a  pathetic 
scene  I  am  laughing  wildly  all  the  time,  —  at  least  Tom- 
kins  thinks  so.  You  know  I  am  such  a  cynic  ! 

The  editor  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  (no  soft  and 
yielding  character  like  his  predecessor,  but  a  man  of  stern 
resolution)  will  only  allow  these  harmless  papers  to  run 
to  a  certain  length.  But  for  this  veto  I  should  gladly 
have  prattled  over  half  a  sheet  more,'  and  have  discoursed 
on  many  heroes  and  heroines  of  novels  whom  fond  mem- 
ory brings  back  to  me.  Of  these  books  I  have  been  a 
diligent  student  from  those  early  days,  which  are  recorded 
at  the  commencement  of  this  little  essay.  0,  delightful 
novels,  well  remembered  !  O,  novels,  sweet  and  delicious 


ON  A  PEAL  OF  BELLS.  307 

as  the  raspberry  open-tarts  of  budding  boyhood  !  Do  I 
forget  one  night  after  prayers  (when  we  under-boys  were 
sent  to  bed),  lingering  at  my  cupboard  to  read  one  little 
half  page  more  of  my  dear  Walter  Scott,  —  and  down 
came  the  monitor's  dictionary  upon  my  head  ?  Rebecca, 
daughter  of  Isaac  of  York,  I  have  loved  thee  faithfully 
for  forty  years !  Thou  wert  twenty  years  old  (say),  and 
I  but  twelve,  when  I  knew  thee.  At  sixty  odd,  love, 
most  of  the  ladies  of  thy  Orient  race  have  lost  the  bloom 
of  youth,  and  bulged  beyond  the  line  of  beauty ;  but  to 
me  thou  art  ever  young  and  fair,  and  I  will  do  battle  with 
any  felon  Templar  who  assails  thy  fair  name. 


ON   SOME   CARP   AT   SANS   SOUCI. 

]E  have  lately  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  old 
lady  of  ninety,  who  has  passed  the  last  twenty- 
five  years  of  her  old  life  in  a  great  metropoli- 
tan establishment,  —  the  workhouse,  namely, 
of  the  parish  of  Saint  Lazarus.  Stay,  —  twenty-three  or 
four  years  ago,  she  came  out  once,  and  thought  to  earn  a 
little  money  by  hop-picking  ;  but  being  overworked,  and 
having  to  lie  out  at  night,  she  got  a  palsy  which  has  inca- 
pacitated her  from  all  further  labor,  and  has  caused  her 
poor  old  limbs  to  shake  ever  since. 

An  illustration  of  that  dismal  proverb  which  tells  us 
how  poverty  makes  us  acquainted  with  strange  bedfel- 
lows, this  poor  old  shaking  body  has  to  lay  herself  down 
every  night  in  her  workhouse  bed  by  the  side  of  some 
other  old  woman  with  whom  she  may  or  may  not  agree. 
She  herself  can't  be  a  very  pleasant  bedfellow,  poor 
thing !  with  her  shaking  old  limbs  and  cold  feet.  She 
lies  awake  a  deal  of  the  night,  to  be  sure,  not  thinking  of 
happy  old  times,  for  hers  never  were  happy ;  but  sleep- 
less with  aches,  and  agues,  and  rheumatism  of  old  age. 
"  The  gentleman  gave  me  brandy-and-water,"  she  said, 
her  old  voice  shaking  with  rapture  at  the  thought.  I 
never  had  a  great  love  for  Queen  Charlotte,  but  I  like 
her  better  now  from  what  this  old  lady  told  me.  The 


ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOUCI.       309 

Queen,  who  loved  snuff  herself,  has  left  a  legacy  of  snuff 
to  certain  poorhouses ;  and,  in  her  watchful  nights,  this 
old  woman  takes  a  pinch  of  Queen  Charlotte's  snuff, 
"  and  it  do  comfort  me,  sir,  that  it  do  !  "  Pulveris  exigui 
munus.  Here  is  a  forlorn  aged  creature,  shaking  with 
palsy,  with  no  soul  among  the  great  struggling  multitude 
of  mankind  to  care  for  her,  not  quite  trampled  out  of  life, 
but  past  and  forgotten  in  the  rush,  made  a  little  happy, 
and  soothed  in  her  hours  of  unrest  by  this  penny  legacy. 
Let  me  think  as  I  write.  (The  next  month's  sermon, 
thank  goodness  !  is  safe  to  press.)  This  discourse  will 
appear  at  the  season  when  I  have  read  that  wassail  bowls 
make  their  appearance ;  at  the  season  of  pantomime,  tur- 
key and  sausages,  plum-puddings,  jollifications  for  school- 
boys ;  Christmas  bills,  and  reminiscences  more  or  less  sad 
and  sweet,  for  elders.  If  we  oldsters  are  not  merry,  we 
shall  be  having  a  semblance  of  merriment.  We  shall  see 
the  young  folks  laughing  round  the  holly-bush.  We  shall 
pass  the  bottle  round  cosily  as  we  sit  by  the  fire.  That 
old  thing  will  have  a  sort  of  festival  too.  Beef,  beer, 
and  pudding  will  be  served  to  her  for  that  day,  also. 
Christmas  falls  on  a  Thursday.  Friday  is  the  workhouse 
day  for  coming  out.  Mary,  remember  that  old  Goody 
Twoshoes  has  her  invitation  for  Friday,  26th  December  ! 
Ninety,  is  she,  poor  old  soul  ?  Ah  !  what  a  bonny  face 
to  catch  under  a  mistletoe  !  "  Yes,  ninety,  sir,"  she  says, 
"  and  my  mother  was  a  hundred,  and  my  grandmother 
was  a  hundred  and  two." 

Herself  ninety,  her  mother  a  hundred,  her  grandmother 
a  hundred  and  two  ?  What  a  queer  calculation  ! 

Ninety  !  Very  good,  granny ;  you  were  born,  then,  in 
1772. 

Your  mother,  we  will  say,  was  twenty-seven  when  you 
were  born,  and  was  born  therefore  in  1745. 


310       ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOUCI. 

Your  grandmother  was  thirty  when  her  daughter  was 
born,  and  was  born  therefore  in  1715. 

We  will  begin  with  the  present  granny  first.  My  good 
old  creature,  you  can't  of  course  remember,  but  that  little 
gentleman  for  whom  your  mother  was  laundress  in  the 
Temple  was  the  ingenious  Mr.  Goldsmith,  author  of  a 
"  History  of  England,"  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  and 
many  diverting  pieces.  You  were  brought  almost  an  in- 
fant to  his  chambers  in  Brick  Court,  and  he  gave  you 
some  sugar-candy,  for  the  doctor  was  always  good  to  chil- 
dren. That  gentleman  who  wellnigh  smothered  you  by 
sitting  down  on  you  as  you  lay  in  a  chair  asleep  was  the 
learned  Mr.  S.  Johnson,  whose  history  of  "  Ra^selas  "  you 
have  never  read,  my  poor  soul;  and  whose  tragedy  of 
"  Irene  "  I  don't  believe  any  man  in  these  kingdoms  ever 
perused.  That  tipsy  Scotch  gentleman  who  used  to  come  to 
the  chambers  sometimes,  and  at  whom  everybody  laughed, 
wrote  a  more  amusing  book  than  any  of  the  scholars, 
your  Mr.  Burke  and  your  Mr.  Johnson,  and  your  Doctor 
Goldsmith.  Your  father  often  took  him  home  in  a  chair 
to  his  lodgings  ;  and  has  done  as  much  for  Parson  Sterne 
in  Bond  Street,  the  famous  wit.  Of  course,  my  good 
creature,  you  remember  the  Gordon  Riots,  and  crying  No 
Popery  before  Mr.  Langdale's  house,  the  Popish  distil- 
ler's, and  that  bonny  fire  of  my  Lord  Mansfield's  books  in 
Bloomsbury  Square  ?  Bless  us,  what  a  heap  of  illumina- 
tions you  have  seen  !  For  the  glorious  victory  over  the 
Americans  at  Breed's  Hill;  for  the  peace  in  1814,  and 
the  beautiful  Chinese  bridge  in  St.  James's  Park  ;  for  the 
coronation  of  his  Majesty,  whom  you  recollect  as  Prince 
of  Wales,  Goody,  don't  you  ?  Yes ;  and  you  went  in  a 
procession  of  laundresses  to  pay  your  respects  to  his  good 
lady,  the  injured  Queen  of  England,  at  Brandenburg 


ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOUCI.       311 

House  ;  and  you  remember  your  mother  told  you  how 
she  was  taken  to  see  the  Scotch  lords  executed  at  the 
Tower.  And  as  for  your  grandmother,  she  was  born  five 
months  after  the  battle  of  Malplaquet.  She  was  ;  where 
her  poor  father  was  killed,  fighting  like  a  bold  Briton  for 
the  Queen.  With  the  help  of  a  Wade's  Chronology,  I 
can  make  out  ever  so  queer  a  history  for  you,  my  poor 
old  body,  and  a  pedigree  as  authentic  as  many  in  the 
peerage-books. 

Peerage-books  and  pedigrees  ?  What  does  she  know 
about  them  ?  Battles  and  victories,  treasons,  kings,  and 
beheadings,  literary  gentlemen,  and  the  like,  what  have 
they  ever  been  to  her  ?  Granny,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
General  Wolfe  ?  Your  mother  may  have  seen  him  em- 
bark, and  your  father  may  have  carried  a  musket  under 
him.  Your  grandmother  may  have  cried  huzzay  for  Marl- 
borough  ;  but  what  is  the  Prince  Duke  to  you,  and  did 
you  ever  so  much  as  hear  tell  of  his  name  ?  How  many 
hundred  or  thousand  of  years  had  that  toad  lived  who 
was  in  the  coal  at'the  defunct  Exhibition  ?  —  and  yet  he 
was  not  a  bit  better  informed  than  toads  seven  or  eight 
hundred  years  younger. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  your  nonsense  about  Exhibitions, 
and  Prince  Dukes,  and  toads  in  coals,  or  coals  in  toads, 
or,  what  is  it !  "  says  granny.  "  I  know  there  was  a  good 
Queen  Charlotte,  for  she  left  me  snuff;  and  it  comforts 
me  of  a  night  when  I  lie  awake." 

To  me  there  is  something  very  touching  in  the  notion 
of  that  little  pinch  of  comfort  doled  out  to  granny,  and 
gratefully  inhaled  by  her  in  the  darkness.  Don't  you  re- 
member what  traditions  there  used  to  be  of  chests  of 
plate,  bulses  of  diamonds,  laces  of  inestimable  value,  sent 
out  of  the  country  privately  by  the  old  Queen,  to  enrich 


312       ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOUCI. 

certain  relations  in  M-ckl-nb-rg  Str-l-tz  ?  Not  all  the 
treasure  went.  Non  omnis  moritur.  A  poor  old  palsied 
thing  at  midnight  is  made  happy  sometimes  as  she  lifts 
her  shaking  old  hand  to  her  nose.  Gliding  noiselessly 
among  the  beds  where  lie  the  poor  creatures  huddled  in 
their  cheerless  dormitory,  I  fancy  an  old  ghost  with  a 
snuff-box  that  does  not  creak.  "  There,  Goody,  take  of 
my  rappee.  You  will  not  sneeze,  and  I  shall  not  say, 
4  God  bless  you.'  But  you  will  think  kindly  of  old 
Queen  Charlotte,  won't  you  ?  Ah  !  I  had  a  many  trou- 
bles, a  many  troubles.  I  was  a  prisoner  almost  so  much 
as  you  are.  I  had  to  eat  boiled  mutton  every  day :  en- 
tre  nous,  I  abominated  it.  But  I  never  complained.  I 
swallowed  it.  I  made  the  best  of  a  hard  life.  We  have 
all  our  burdens  to  bear.  But  hark  !  I  hear  the  cock- 
crow, and  snuff  the  morning  air."  And  with  this  the 
royal  ghost  vanishes  up  the  chimney,  —  if  there  be  a 
chimney  in  that  dismal  harem,  where  poor  old  Twoshoes 
and  her  companions  pass  their  nights,  —  their  dreary 
nights,  their  restless  nights,  their  cold,  Ibng  nights,  shared 
in  what  glum  companionship,  illumined  by  what  a  feeble 
taper  ! 

"  Did  I  understand  you,  my  good  Twoshoes,  to  say  that 
pour  mother  was  seven-and-twenty  years  old  when  you 
were  born,  and  that  she  married  your  esteemed  father 
when  she  herself  was  twenty -five  ?  1745,  then,  was  the 
date  of  your  dear  mother's  birth.  I  dare  say  her  father 
was  absent  in  the  Low  Countries,  with  his  Royal  High- 
ness the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  under  whom  he  had  the 
honor  of  carrying  a  halberd  at  the  famous  engagement  of 
Fontenoy,  —  or  if  not  there,  he  may  have  been  at  Pres- 
ton Pans,  under  General  Sir  John  Cope,  when  the  wild 
Highlanders  broke  through  all  the  laws  of  discipline  and 


ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOUCI.       313 

the  English  lines  ;  and,  being  on  the  spot,  did  he  see  the  fa- 
mous ghost  which  did  n't  appear  to  Colonel  Gardiner  of 
the  Dragoons  ?  My  good  creature,  is  it  possible  you  don't 
remember  that  Doctor  Swift,  Sir  Robert  Walpole  (my 
Lord  Orford,  as  you  justly  say),  old  Sarah  Maryborough, 
and  little  Mr.  Pope,  of  Twitnam,  died  in  the  year  of  your 
birth  ?  What  a  wretched  memory  you  have  ?  What  ? 
have  n't  they  a  library,  and  the  commonest  books  of  ref- 
erence at  the  old  convent  of  Saint  Lazarus,  where  you 
dwell?" 

"  Convent  of  Saint  Lazarus,  Prince  William,  Dr.  Swift, 
Atossa,  and  Mr.  Pope,  of  Twitnam  !  What  is  the  gentle- 
man talking  about  ?  "  says  old  Goody,  with  a  "  Ho  !  ho ! " 
and  a  laugh  like  an  old  parrot,  —  you  know  they  live  to 
be  as  old  as  Methuselah,  parrots  do,  and  a  parrot  of  a 
hundred  is  comparrotively  young  (ho  !  ho !  ho !).  Yes, 
and  likewise  carps  live  to  an  immense  old  age.  Some 
which  Frederick  the  Great  fed  at  Sans  Souci  are  there 
now,  with  great  humps  of  blue  mould  on  their  old  backs ; 
and  they  could  tell  all  sorts  of  queer  stories,  if  they  chose 
to  speak  —  but  they  are  very  silent,  carps  are  —  of  their 
nature  pen  communicatives.  O,  what  has  been  thy  long 
life,  old  Goody,  but  a  dole  of  bread  and  water  and  a 
perch  on  a  cage  ;  a  dreary  swim  round  and  round  a  Lethe 
of  a  pond  ?  What  are  Rossbach  or  Jena  to  those  mouldy 
ones,  and  do  they  know  it  is  a  grandchild  of  England  who 
brings  bread  to  feed  them  ? 

No !  Those  Sans  Souci  carps  may  live  to  be  a  thou- 
sand years  old  and  have  nothing  to  tell  but  that  one  day 
is  like  another;  and  the  history  of  friend  Goody  Two- 
shoes  has  not  much  more  variety  than  theirs.  Hard 
labor,  hard  fare,  hard  bed,  numbing  cold  all  night,  and 
gnawing  hunger  most  days.  That  is  her  lot.  Is  it  law- 
14 


314       ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOUCI. 

ful  in  my  prayers  to  say,  "  Thank  heaven,  I  am  not  as 
one  of  these  ?  "  If  I  were  eighty,  would  I  like  to  feel  the 
hunger  always  gnawing,  gnawing  ?  to  have  to  get  up  and 
make  a  bow  when  Mr.  Bumble  the  beadle  entered  the 
common  room  ?  to  have  to  listen  to  Miss  Prim,  who  came 
to  give  me  her  ideas  of  the  next  world  ?  If  I  were  eighty, 
I  own  I  should  not  like  to  have  to  sleep  with  another 
gentleman  of  my  own  age,  gouty,  a  bad  sleeper,  kicking 
in  his  old  dreams,  and  snoring ;  to  march  down  my  vale 
of  years  at  word  of  command,  accommodating  my  totter- 
ing old  steps  to  those  of  the  other  prisoners  in  my  dingy, 
hopeless  old  gang;  to  hold  out  a  trembling  hand  for  a 
sickly  pittance  of  gruel,  and  say,  "  Thank  you,  mam ! "  to 
Miss  Prim,  when  she  has  done  reading  her  sermon. 
John !  when  Goody  Twoshoes  comes  next  Friday,  I  de- 
sire she  may  not  be  disturbed  by  theological  controver- 
sies. You  have  a  very  fair  voice,  and  I  heard  you  and 
the  maids  singing  a  hymn  very  sweetly  the  other  night, 
and  was  thankful  that  our  humble  household  should  be  in 
such  harmony.  Poor  old  Twoshoes  is  so  old  and  tooth- 
less and  quaky,  that  she  can't  sing  a  bit ;  but  don't  be  giv- 
ing yourself  airs  over  her,  because  she  can't  sing  and  you 
can.  Make  her  comfortable  at  our  kitchen  hearth.  Set 
that  old  kettle  to  sing  by  our  hob.  Warm  her  old  stom- 
ache  with  nut-brown  ale  and  a  toast  laid  in  the  fire.  Be 
kind  to  the  poor  old  school-girl  of  ninety,  who  has  had 
leave  to  come  out  for  a  day  of  Christmas  holiday.  Shall 
there  be  many  more  Christmases  for  thee  ?  Think  of  the 
ninety  she  has  seen  already ;  the  four  score  and  ten  cold, 
cheerless,  nipping  New  Years  ! 

If  you  were  in  her  place,  would  you  like  to  have  a  re- 
membrance of  better  early  days,  when  you  were  young, 
and  happy,  and  loving,  perhaps ;  or  would  you  prefer  to 


ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOUCI.       315 

have  no  past  on  which  your  mind  could  rest  ?  About  the 
year  1788,  Goody,  were  your  cheeks  rosy,  and  your  eyes 
bright,  and  did  some  young  fellow  in  powder  and  a  pig- 
tail look  in  them  ?  We  may  grow  old,  but  to  us  some 
stories  never  are  old.  On  a  sudden  they  rise  up,  not 
dead,  but  living,  —  not  forgotten,  but  freshly  remembered. 
The  eyes  gleam  on  us  as  they  used  to  do.  The  dear 
voice  thrills  in  our  hearts.  The  rapture  of  the  meeting, 
the  terrible,  terrible  parting,  again  and  again  the  tragedy 
is  acted  over.  Yesterday,  in  the  street,  I  saw  a  pair  of 
eyes  so  like  two  which  used  to  brighten  at  my  coming 
once,  that  the  whole  past  came  back  as  I  walked  lonely, 
in  the  rush  of  the  Strand,  and  I  was  young  again  in  the 
midst  of  joys  and  sorrows,  alike  sweet  and  sad,  alike 
sacred,  and  fondly  remembered. 

If  I  tell  a  tale  out  of  school,  will  any  harm  come  to  my 
old  school-girl  ?  Once,  a  lady  gave  her  a  half-sovereign, 
which  was  a  source  of  great  pain  and  anxiety  to  Goody 
Twoshoes.  She  sewed  it  away  in- her  old  stays  some- 
where, thinking  here  at  least  was  a  safe  investment  — 
(vestis  —  a  vest — an  investment,  —  pardon  me,  thou  poor 
old  thing,  but  I  cannot  help  the  pleasantry).  And  what 
do  you  think  ?  Another  pensionnaire  of  the  establish- 
ment cut  the  coin  out  of  Goody's  stays,  —  an  old  woman 
who  went  upon  two  crutches!  Faugh,  the  old  witch! 
What  ?  Violence  amongst  these  toothless,  tottering,  trem- 
bling, feeble  ones  ?  Robbery  amongst  the  penniless  ? 
Dogs  coming  and  snatching  Lazarus's  crumbs  out  of  his 
lap?  Ah,  how  indignant  Goody  was  as  she  told  the 
story !  To  that  pond  at  Potsdam  where  the  carps  live 
for  hundreds  of  hundreds  of  years,  with  hunches  of  blue 
mould  on  their  back,  I  dare  say  the  little  Prince  and  Prin- 
cess of  Preussen-Britannien  come  sometimes  with  crumbs 


316       ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOUCI. 

and  cakes  to  feed  the  mouldy  ones.  Those  eyes  may 
have  goggled  from  beneath  the  weeds  at  Napoleon's  jack- 
boots :  they  have  seen  Frederick's  lean  shanks  reflected 
in  their  pool ;  and  perhaps  Monsieur  de  Voltaire  has  fed 
them,  —  and  now,  for  a  crumb  of  biscuit  they  will  fight, 
push,  hustle,  rob,  squabble,  gobble,  relapsing  into  their 
tranquillity  when  the  ignoble  struggle  is  over.  Sans 
souci,  indeed !  It  is  mighty  well  writing  "  Sans  souci " 
over  the  gate  ;  but  where  is  the  gate  through  which 
Care  has  not  slipped  ?  She  perches  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  sentry  in  the  sentry-box  :  she  whispers  the  porter 
sleeping  in  his  arm-chair :  she  glides  up  the  staircase, 
and  lies  down  between  the  king  and  queen  in  their 
bed-royal :  this  very  night  I  dare  say  she  will  perch  upon 
poor  old  Goody  Twoshoes's  meagre  bolster,  and  whisper, 
"  Will  the  gentleman  and  those  ladies  ask  me  again  ? 
No,  no  ;  they  will  forget  poor  old  Twoshoes."  Goody ! 
For  shame  of  yourself!  Do  not  be  cynical.  Do  not 
mistrust  your  fellow-creatures.  What  ?  Has  the  Christ- 
mas morning  dawned  upon  thee  ninety  times  ?  For  four- 
score and  ten  years  has  it  been  thy  lot  to  totter  on  this 
earth,  hungry  and  obscure  ?  Peace  and  goodwill  to  thee, 
let  us  say  at  this  Christmas  season.  Come,  drink,  eat, 
rest  awhile  at  our  hearth,  thou  poor  old  pilgrim  !  And 
of  the  bread  which  God's  bounty  gives  us,  I  pray,  brother 
reader,  we  may  not  forget  to  set  aside  a  part  for  those 
noble  and  silent  poor,  from  whose  innocent  hands  war  has 
torn  the  means  of  labor.  Enough  !  As  I  hope  for  beef 
at  Christmas,  I  vow  a  note  shall  be  sent  to  Saint  Lazarus 
Union  House,  in  which  Mr.  Roundabout  requests  the 
honor  of  Mrs.  Twoshoes's  company  on  Friday,  26th  De- 
cember. 


DESSEIN'S. 


ARRIVED  by  the  night-mail  packet  from 
Dover.  The  passage  had  been  rough,  and 
the  usual  consequences  had  ensued.  I  was 
disinclined  to  travel  farther  that  night  on  my 
road  to  Paris,  and  knew  the  Calais  hotel  of  old  as  one  of 
the  cleanest,  one  of  the  dearest,  one  of  the  most  comfort- 
able hotels  on  the  continent  of  Europe.  There  is  no 
town  more  French  than  Calais.  That  charming  old 
Hotel  Dessein,  with  its  court,  its  gardens,  its  lordly  kitch- 
en, its  princely  waiter,  —  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school, 
who  has  welcomed  the  finest  company  in  Europe,  —  have 
long  been  known  to  me.  I  have  read  complaints  in  The 
Times,  more  than  once,  I  think,  that  the  Dessein  bills  are 
dear.  A  bottle  of  soda-water  certainly  costs  —  well,  nev- 
er mind  how  much.  I  remember  as  a  boy,  at  the  Ship 
at  Dover  (imperante  Carolo  Decimo),  when,  my  place  to 
London  being  paid,  I  had  but  12s.  left  after  a  certain 
little  Paris  excursion  (about  which  my  benighted  parents 
never  knew  anything),  ordering  for  dinner  a  whiting,  a 
beefsteak,  and  a  glass  of  negus,  and  the  bill  was,  dinner 
7s.,  glass  of  negus  2s.,  waiter  6c?.,  and  only  half-a-crown 
left,  as  I  was  a  sinner,  for  the  guard  and  coachman  on 
the  way  to  London  !  And  I  was  a  sinner.  I  had  gone 
without  leave.  What  a  long,  dreary,  guilty,  forty  hours' 


318  DESSEIN'S. 

journey  it  was  from  Paris  to  Calais,  I  remember !  How 
did  I  come  to  think  of  this  escapade,  which  occurred  in 
the  Easter  vacation  of  the  year  1830  ?  I  always  think  of 
it  when  I  am  crossing  to  Calais.  Guilt,  sir,  guilt  remains 
stamped  on  the  memory,  and  I  feel  easier  in  my  mind  now 
that  it  is  liberated  of  this  old  peccadillo.  I  met  my  college 
tutor  only  yesterday.  We  were  travelling,  and  stopped 
at  the  same  hotel.  He  had  the  very  next  room  to  mine. 
After  he  had  gone  into  his  apartment,  having  shaken  me 
quite  kindly  by  the  hand,  I  felt  inclined  to  knock  at  his 
door,  and  say,  "  Doctor  Bentley,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but 
do  you  remember,  when  I  was  going  down  at  the  Easter 
vacation  in  1830,  you  asked  me  where  I  was  going  to 
spend  my  vacation  ?  And  I  said,  with  my  friend  Slings- 
by,  in  Huntingdonshire.  Well,  sir,  I  grieve  to  have  to 
confess  that  I  told  you  a  fib.  I  had  got  £  20  and  was 
going  for  a  lark  to  Paris,  where  my  friend  Edwards  was 
staying."  There,  it  is  out.  The  Doctor  will  read  it,  for 
I  did  not  wake  him  up  after  all  to  make  my  confession, 
but  protest  he  shall  have  a  copy  of  this  Roundabout  sent 
to  him  when  he  returns  to  his  lodge. 

They  gave  me  a  bedroom  there ;  a  very  neat  room  on 
the  first  floor,  looking  into  the  pretty  garden.  The  hotel 
must  look  pretty  much  as  it  did  a  hundred  years  ago 
when  he  visited  it.  I  wonder  whether  he  paid  his  bill  ? 
Yes  :  his  journey  was  just  begun.  He  had  borrowed  or 
got  the  money  somehow.  Such  a  man  would  spend  it 
liberally  enough  when  he  had  it,  give  generously,  —  nay, 
drop  a  tear  over  the  fate  of  the  poor  fellow  whom  he 
relieved.  I  don't  believe  a  word  he  says,  but  I  never 
accused  him  of  stinginess  about  money.  That  is  a  fault 
of  much  more  virtuous  people  than  he.  Mr.  Laurence 
is  ready  enough  with  his  purse  when  there  are  anybody's 


DESSEIN'S.  319 

guineas  in  it.  Still,  when  I  went  to  bed  in  the  room,  in 
his  room,  —  when  I  think  how  I  admire,  dislike,  and  have 
abused  him,  —  a  certain  dim  feeling  of  apprehension  filled 
my  mind  at  the  midnight  hour.  What  if  I  should  see  his 
lean  figure  in  the  black  satin  breeches,  his  sinister  smile, 
his  long  thin  finger  pointing  to  me  in  the  moonlight  (for 
I  am  in  bed,  and  have  popped  my  candle  out),  and  he 
should  say,  "You  mistrust  me,  you  hate  me,  do  you? 
And  you,  don't  you  know  how  Jack,  Tom,  and  Harry,  your 
brother  authors,  hate  you?"  I  grin  and  laugh  in  the 
moonlight,  in  the  midnight,  in  the  silence.  "  0  you  ghost 
in  black  satin  breeches  and  a  wig !  I  like  to  be  hated  by 
some  men,"  I  say.  "I  know  men  whose  lives  are  a 
scheme,  whose  laughter  is  a  conspiracy,  whose  smile 
means  something  else,  whose  hatred  is  a  cloak,  and  I  had 
rather  these  men  should  hate  me  than  not." 

"  My  good  sir,"  says  he,  with  a  ghastly  grin  on  his  lean 
face,  "you  have  your  wish." 

"Apres?"  I  say.  "  Please  let  me  go  to  sleep.  I  sha'n't 
sleep  any  the  worse  because  — " 

"  Because  there  are  insects  in  the  bed,  and  they  sting 
you  ?  "  (This  is  only  by  way  of  illustration,  my  good 
sir ;  the  animals  don't  bite  me  now.  All  the  house  at 
present  seems  to  me  excellently  clean.)  "'T  is  absurd  to 
affect  this  indifference.  If  you  are  thin-skinned,  and  the 
reptiles  bite,  they  keep  you  from  sleep." 

"There  are  some  men  who  cry  out  at  a  flea-bite  as 
loud  as  if  they  were  torn  by  a  vulture,"  I  growl. 

"  Men  of  the  genus  irritable,  my  worthy  good  gentle- 
man !  —  and  you  are  one." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  of  the  profession,  as  you  say ;  and 
I  dare  say  make  a  great  shouting  and  crying  at  a  small 
hurt." 


320  DESSEIN'S. 

"  You  are  ashamed  of  that  quality  by  which  you  earn 
your  subsistence,  and  such  reputation  as  you  have  ?  Your 
sensibility  is  your  livelihood,  my  worthy  friend.  You 
feel  a  pang  of  pleasure  or  pain  ?  It  is  noted  in  your 
memory,  and  some  day  or  other  makes  its  appearance  in 
your  manuscript.  Why,  in  your  last  Roundabout  rub- 
bish you  mention  reading  your  first  novel  on  the  day 
when  King  George  IV.  was  crowned.  I  remember  him 
in  his  cradle  at  St.  James's,  a  lovely  little  babe ;  a  gilt 
Chinese  railing  was  before  him,  and  I  dropped  the  tear 
of  sensibility  as  I  gazed  on  the  sleeping  cherub." 

"  A  tear,  —  a  fiddlestick,  Mr.  STERNE,"  I  growled  out, 
for  of  course  I  knew  my  friend  in  the  wig  and  satin 
breeches  to  be  no  other  than  the  notorious,  nay,  celebrated 
Mr.  Laurence  Sterne. 

"  Does  not  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  infant  charm  and 
melt  you,  mon  ami  ?  If  not,  I  pity  you.  Yes,  he  was 
beautiful.  I  was  in  London  the  year  he  was  born.  I 
used  to  breakfast  at  the  Mount  Coffee-house.  I  did  not 
become  the  fashion  until  two  years  later,  when  my  "  Tris- 
tram "  made  his  appearance,  who  has  held  his  own  for  a 
hundred  years.  By  the  way,  mon  bon  monsieur,  how 
many  authors  of  your  present  time  will  last  till  the  next 
century  ?  Do  you  think  Brown  will  ?  " 

I  laughed  with  scorn  as  I  lay  in  my  bed  (and  so  did 
the  ghost  give  a  ghastly  snigger) . 

"  Brown ! "  I  roared.  "  One  of  the  most  over-rated 
men  that  ever  put  pen  to  paper." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Jones  ?  " 

I  grew  indignant  with  this  old  cynic.  "  As  a  reason- 
able ghost,  come  out  of  the  other  world,  you  don't  mean," 
I  said,  "  to  ask  me  a  serious  opinion  of  Mr.  Jones  ?  His 
books  may  be  very  good  reading  for  maid-servants  and 


DESSEIN'S.  321 

school-boys,  but  you  don't  ask  me  to  read  them  ?    As  a 
scholar  yourself  you  must  know  that  —  " 

"  Well,  then,  Robinson  ?  " 

"  Robinson,  I  am  told,  has  merit.  I  dare  say ;  I  never 
have  been  able  to  read  his  books,  and  can't,  therefore, 
form  any  opinion  about  Mr.  Robinson.  At  least  you  will 
allow  that  I  am  not  speaking  in  a  prejudiced  manner 
about  him." 

"  Ah  !  I  see  you  men  of  letters  have  your  cabals  and 
jealousies,  as  we  had  in  my  time.  There  was  an  Irish 
fellow  by  the  name  of  Gouldsmith,  who  used  to  abuse 
me ;  but  he  went  into  no  genteel  company,  —  and  faith  ! 
it  mattered  little,  his  praise  or  abuse.  I  never  was  more 
surprised  than  when  I  heard  that  Mr.  Irving,  an  Ameri- 
can gentleman  of  parts  and  elegance,  had  wrote  the  fel- 
low's life.  To  make  a  hero  of  that  man,  my  dear  sir, 
't  was  ridiculous !  You  followed  in  the  fashion,  I  hear, 
and  chose  to  lay  a  wreath  before  this  queer  little  idol. 
Preposterous!  A  pretty  writer,  who  has  turned  some 
neat  couplets.  Bah !  I  have  no  patience  with  Master 
Posterity,  that  has  chosen  to  take  up  this  fellow,  and 
make  a  hero  of  him !  And  there  was  another  gentleman 
of  my  time,  Mr.  Thiefcatcher  Fielding,  forsooth !  a  fellow 
with  the  strength,  and  the  tastes,  and  the  manners  of  a 
porter  !  What  madness  has  possessed  you  all  to  bow  be- 
fore that  Calvert  Butt  of  a  man  ?  —  a  creature  without 
elegance  or  sensibility !  The  dog  had  spirits,  certainly. 
I  remember  my  Lord  Bathurst  praising  them :  but  as  for 
reading  his  books  —  ma  foi,  'I  would  as  lief  go  and  dive 
for  tripe  in  a  cellar.  The  man's  vulgarity  stifles  me. 
He  wafts  me  whiffs  of  gin.  Tobacco  and  onions  are  in . 
his  great  coarse  laugh,  which  choke  me,  pardi ;  and  I 
don't  think  much  better  of  the  other  fellow,  —  the  Scots' 
14*  u 


322  DESSEIN'S. 

gallipot  purveyor,  —  Peregrine  Clinker,  Humphrey  Ran- 
dom, —  how  did  the  fellow  call  his  rubbish  ?  Neither  of 
these  men  had  the  lei  air,  the  bon  ton,  the  je  ne  s$ais 
quoy.  Pah !  If  I  meet  them  in  my  walks  by  our  Sty- 
gian river,  I  give  them  a  wide  berth,  as  that  hybrid 
apothecary  fellow  would  say.  An  ounce  of  civet,  good 
apothecary;  horrible,  horrible!  The  mere  thought  of 
the  coarseness  of  those  men  gives  me  the  chair  de  poule. 
Mr.  Fielding,  especially,  has  no  more  sensibility  than  a 
butcher  in  Fleet  Market.  He  takes  his  heroes  out  of  ale- 
house kitchens,  or  worse  places  still.  And  this  is  the 
person,  whom  Posterity  has  chosen  to  honor  along  with 
me,  —  me !  Faith,  Monsieur  Posterity,  you  have  put 
me  in  pretty  company,  and  I  see  you  are  no  wiser  than 
we  were  in  our  time.  Mr.  Fielding,  forsooth !  Mr.  Tripe 
and  Onions !  Mr.  Cowheel  and  Gin !  Thank  you  for 
nothing,  Monsieur  Posterity!" 

"  And  so,"  thought  I,  "  even  among  these  Stygians  this 
envy  and  quarrelsomeness  (if  you  will  permit  me  the 
word)  survive.  What  a  pitiful  meanness !  To  be  sure, 
I  can  understand  this  feeling  to  a  certain  extent ;  a  sense 
of  justice  will  prompt  it.  In  my  own  case,  I  often  feel 
myself  forced  to  protest  against  the  absurd  praises 
lavished  on  contemporaries.  Yesterday,  for  instance, 
Lady  Jones  was  good  enough  to  praise  one  of  my  works. 
Tres  bien.  But  in  the  very  next  minute  she  began,  with 
quite  as  great  enthusiasm,  to  praise  Miss  Hobson's  last 
romance.  My  good  creature,  what  is  that  woman's  praise 
worth  who  absolutely  admires  the  writings  of  Miss  Hob- 
son  ?  I  offer  a  friend  a  bottle  of  '44  claret,  fit  for  a  pon- 
tifical supper.  "  This  is  capital  wine,"  says  he ;  "  and  now 
we  have  finished  the  bottle,  will  you  give  me  a  bottle 
of  that  ordinaire  we  drank  the  other  day  ?  "  Very  well, 


DESSEIN'S.  323 

my  good  man.  You  are  a  good  judge,  —  of  ordinaire,  I 
dare  say.  Nothing  so  provokes  my  anger,  and  rouses  my 
sense  of  justice,  as  to  hear  other  men  undeservedly 
praised.  In  a  word,  if  you  wish  to  remain  friends  with 
me,  don't  praise  anybody.  You  tell  me  that  the  Venus  de' 
Medici  is  beautiful,  or  Jacob  Omnium  is  tall.  Que  dia- 
lle!  Can't  I  judge  for  myself?  Have  n't  I  eyes  and  a 
foot-rule  ?  I  don't  think  the  Venus  is  so  handsome,  since 
you  press  me.  She  is  pretty,  but  she  has  no  expression. 
And  as  for  Mr.  Omnium,  I  can  see  much  taller  men  in  a 
fair  for  twopence." 

"  And  so,"  I  said,  turning  round  to  Mr.  Sterne,  "  you 
are  actually  jealous  of  Mr.  Fielding  ?  O  you  men  of  let- 
ters, you  men  of  letters  !  Is  not  the  world  (your  world, 
I  mean)  big  enough  for  all  of  you  ?  " 

I  often  travel  in  my  sleep.  I  often  of  a  night  find  my- 
self walking  in  my  night-gown  about  the  gray  streets.  It 
is  awkward  at  first,  but  somehow  nobody  makes  any  re- 
mark. I  glide  along  over  the  ground  with  my  naked 
feet.  The  mud  does  not  wet  them.  The  passers-by  do 
not  tread  on  them.  I  am  wafted  over  the  ground,  down 
the  stairs,  through  the  doors.  This  sort  of  travelling, 
dear  friends,  I  am  sure  you  have  all  of  you  indulged. 

Well,  on  the  night  in  question  (and,  if  you  wish  to 
know  the  precise  date,  it  was  the  31st  of  September  last), 
after  having  some  little  conversation  with  Mr.  Sterne  in 
our  bedroom,  I  must  have  got  up,  though  I  protest  I  don't 
know  how,  and  come  down  stairs  with  him  into  the  coffee- 
room  of  the  Hotel  Dessein,  where  the  moon  was  shining, 
and  a  cold  supper  was  laid  out.  I  forget  what  we  had  — 
"  vol  au  vent  d'o3ufs  de  Phenix  —  agneau  aux  pistaches 
k  la  Barmecide,"  —  what  matters  what  we  had  ?  As 
regards  supper  this  is  certain,  the  less  you  have  of  it  the 
better. 


324  DESSEIN'S. 

That  is  what  one  of  the  guests  remarked,  —  a  shabby 
old  man  in  a  wig,  and  such  a  dirty,  ragged,  disreputable 
dressing-gown  that  I  should  have  been  quite  surprised  at 
him,  only  one  never  is  surprised  in  dr —  under  certain 
circumstances. 

"  I  can't  eat  'em  now,"  said  the  greasy  man  (with  his 
false  old  teeth,  I  wonder  he  could  eat  anything).  UI 
remember  Alvanley  eating  three  suppers  once  at  Carlton 
House,  —  one  night  de  petite  comite" 

"  Petit  comite,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Sterne. 

"  Dammy,  sir,  let  me  tell  my  own  story  my  own  way. 
I  say,  one  night  at  Carlton  House,  playing  at  blind  hookey 
with  York,  Wales,  Tom  Raikes,  Prince  Boothby,  and 
Dutch  Sam  the  boxer,  Alvanley  ate  three  suppers,  and 
won  three  and  twenty  hundred  pounds  in  ponies.  Never 
saw  a  fellow  with  such  an  appetite  except  Wales  in  his 
good  time.  But  he  destroyed  the  finest  digestion  a  man 
ever  had  with  maraschino,  by  Jove,  —  always  at  it." 

"  Try  mine,"  said  Mr.  Sterne. 

"  What  a  doosid  queer  box,"  says  Mr.  Brummell. 

"  I  had  it  from  a  Capuchin  friar  in  this  town.  The 
box  is  but  a  horn  one;  but  to  the  nose  of  sensibility 
Araby's  perfume  is  not  more  delicate." 

"  I  call  it  doosid  stale  old  rappee,"  says  Mr.  Brummell 
—  (as  for  me  I  declare  I  could  not  smell  anything  at  all 
in  either  of  the  boxes).  "  Old  boy  in  smock-frock,  take  a 
pinch?" 

The  old  boy  in  the  smock-frock,  as  Mr.  Brummell 
called  him,  was  a  very  old  man,  with  long  white  beard, 
wearing,  not  a  smock-frock,  but  a  shirt ;  and  he  had  actu- 
ally nothing  else  save  a  rope  rourid  his  neck,  which  hung 
behind  his  chair  in  the  queerest  way. 

"  Fair  sir,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mr.  Brummell,  "  when 


DESSEIN'S.  325 

the  Prince  of  Wales  and  his  father  laid  siege  to  our 
town  — " 

"  What  nonsense  are  you  talking,  old  cock  ?  "  says  Mr. 
Brummell ;  "  Wales  was  never  here.  His  late  Majesty 
George  IV.  passed  through  on  his  way  to  Hanover.  My 
good  man,  you  don't  seem  to  know  what 's  up  at  all. 
What  is  he  talkin'  about  the  siege  of  Calais  ?  I  lived 
here  fifteen  years !  Ought  to  know.  What 's  his  old 
name  ?  " 

"  I  am  Master  Eustace,  of  Saint  Peter,"  said  the  old 
gentleman  in  the  shirt.  "  When  my  Lord  King  Edward 
laid  siege  to  this  city  —  " 

"  Laid  siege  to  Jericho  ! "  cries  Mr.  Brummell.  "  The 
old  man  is  cracked,  —  cracked,  sir  ! " 

"  —  Laid  siege  to  this  city,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"  I  and  five  more  promised  Messire  Gautier  de  Mauny 
that  we  would  give  ourselves  up  as  ransom  for  the  place. 
And  we  came  before  our  Lord  King  Edward,  attired  as 
jou  see,  and  the  fair  queen  begged  our  lives  out  of  her 
gramercy." 

"  Queen,  nonsense !  you  mean  the  Princess  of  Wales, 
—  pretty  woman,  petit  nez  retrousse,  grew  monstrous 
stout?"  suggested  Mr.  Brummell,  whose  reading  was 
evidently  not  extensive.  "  Sir  Sydney  Smith  was  a  fine 
fellow,  great  talker,  hook-nose,  so  has  Lord  Cochrane,  so 
has  Lord  Wellington.  She  was  very  sweet  on  Sir  Syd- 
ney." 

*•  Your  acquaintance  with  the  history  of  Calais  does  not 
seem  to  be  considerable,"  said  Mr.  Sterne  to  Mr.  Brum- 
mell, with  a  shrug. 

"  Don't  it,  bishop  ?  —  for  I  conclude  you  are  a  bishop 
by  your  wig.  I  know  Calais  as  well  as  any  man.  I 
lived  here  for  years  before  I  took  that  confounded  consu- 


326  DESSEIN'S. 

late  at  Caen.  Lived  in  this  hotel,  then  at  Leleux's.  Peo- 
ple used  to  stop  here.  Good  fellows  used  to  ask  for  poor 
George  Brummell ;  Hertford  did,  so  did  the  Duchess  of 
Devonshire.  Not  know  Calais  indeed  !  That  is  a  good 
joke.  Had  many  a  good  dinner  here  :  sorry  I  ever  left 
it." 

"  My  Lord  King  Edward,"  chirped  the  queer  old  gen- 
tleman in  the  shirt,  "  colonized  the  place  with  his  Eng- 
lish, after  we  had  yielded  it  up  to  him.  I  have  heard 
tell  they  kept  it  for  nigh  three  hundred  years,  till  my 
Lord  de  Guise  took  it  from  a  fair  Queen,  Mary  of  blessed 
memory,  a  holy  woman.  Eh,  but  Sire  Gautier  of  Mauny 
was  a  good  knight,  a  valiant  captain,  gentle  and  courte- 
ous withal !  Do  you  remember  his  ransoming  the  —  " 

"  What  is  the  old  fellow  twaddlin'  about?"  cries  Brum- 
mell. He  is  talking  about  some  knight  ?  —  I  never  spoke 
to  a  knight,  and  very  seldom  to  a  baronet.  Firkins,  my 
butterman,  was  a  knight,  —  a  knight  and  alderman. 
Wales  knighted  him  once  on  going  into  the  city." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  that  the  gentleman  should  not  un- 
derstand Messire  Eustace  of  St.  Peter's,"  said  the  ghostly 
individual  addressed  as  Mr.  Sterne.  "  Your  reading 
doubtless  has  not  been  very  extensive  ?  " 

"  Dammy,  sir,  speak  for  yourself ! "  cries  Mr.  Brum- 
mell, testily.  "I  never  professed  to  be  a  reading  man, 
but  I  was  as  good  as  my  neighbors.  Wales  was  n't  a 
reading  man ;  York  was  n't  a  reading  man  ;  Clarence 
was  n't  a  reading  man ;  Sussex  was,  but  he  was  n't  a 
man  in  society.  I  remember  reading  your  "  Sentimental 
Journey,"  old  boy :  read  it  to  the  duchess  at  Beauvoir,  I 
recollect,  and  she  cried  over  it.  Doosid  clever,  amusing 
book,  and  does  you  great  credit.  Birron  wrote  doosid  clev- 
er books,  too ;  so  did  Monk  Lewis.  George  Spencer  was 


DESSEIN'S.  327 

an  elegant  poet,  and  my  dear  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  if 
she  had  not  been  a  grande  dame,  would  have  beat  'em 
all,  by  George.  Wales  could  n't  write :  he  could  sing, 
but  he  could  n't  spell." 

"  Ah,  you  know  the  great  world  ?  so  did  I  in  my  time, 
Mr.  Brummell.  I  have  had  the  visiting  tickets  of  half 
the  nobility  at  my  lodgings  in  Bond  Street.  But  they 
left  me  there  no  more  cared  for  than  last  year's  calendar," 
sighed  Mr.  Sterne.  "  I  wonder  who  is  the  mode  in  Lon- 
don now  ?  One  of  our  late  arrivals,  my  Lord  Macaulay, 
has  prodigious  merit  and  learning,  and,  faith,  his  histories 
are  more  amusing  than  any  novels,  my  own  included." 

"  Don't  know,  I  'm  sure ;  not  in  my  line.  Pick  this 
bone  of  chicken,"  says  Mr.  Brummell,  trifling  with  a  skel- 
eton bird  before  him. 

"  I  remember  in  this  city  of  Calais  worse  fare  than  yon 
bird,"  said  old  Mr.'  Eustace,  of  Saint  Peter.  "  Marry, 
sirs,  when  my  Lord  King  Edward  laid  siege  to  us,  lucky 
was  he  who  could  get  a  slice  of  horse  for  his  breakfast,  and 
a  rat  was  sold  at  the  price  of  a  hare." 

"  Hare  is  coarse  food,  never  tasted  rat,"  remarked  the 
Beau.  Table-d'hote  poor  fare  enough  for  a  man  like  me, 
who  has  been  accustomed  to  the  best  of  cookery.  But 
rat  —  stifle  me!  I  couldn't  swallow  that:  never  could 
bear  hardship  at  all." 

"  We  had  to  bear  enough  when  my  Lord  of  England 
pressed  us.  'T  was  pitiful  to  see  the  faces  of  our  women 
as  the  siege  went  on,  and  hear  the  little  ones  asking  for 
dinner." 

"  Always  a  bore,  children.  At  dessert,  they  are  bad 
enough,  but  at  dinner  they  're  the  deuce  and  all,"  remarked 
Mr.  Brummell. 

Messire  Eustace,  of  St.  Peter,  did  not  seem  to  pay 


328  DESSEIN'S. 

much  attention  to  the  Beau's  remarks,  but  continued  his 
own  train  of  thought  as  old  men  will  do. 

"  I  hear,"  said  he,  "  that  there  has  actually  been  no 
war  between  us  of  France  and  you  men  of  England  for 
wellnigh  fifty  year.  Ours  has  ever  been  a  nation  of  war- 
riors. And  besides  her  regular  found  men-at-arms,  't  is 
said  the  English  of  the  present  time  have  more  than  a 
hundred  thousand  of  archers  with  weapons  that  will  carry 
for  half  a  mile.  And  a  multitude  have  come  amongst  us 
of  late  from  a  great  Western  country,  never  so  much  as 
heard  of  in  my  time,  —  valiant  men  and  great  drawers  of 
the  long-bow,  and  they  say  they  have  ships  in  armor  that 
no  shot  can  penetrate.  Is  it  so  ?  Wonderful ;  wonder- 
ful !  The  best  armor,  gossips,  is  a  stout  heart." 

"  And  if  ever  manly  heart  beat  under  shirt-frill,  thine 
is  that  heart,  Sir  Eustace ! "  cried  Mr.  Sterne,  enthusi- 
astically. 

"  We,  of  France,  were  never  accused  of  lack  of  cour- 
age, sir,  in  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Messire  Eustace.  "  We 
have  shown  as  much  in  a  thousand  wars  with  you  Eng- 
lish by  sea  and  land ;  and  sometimes  we  conquered,  and 
sometimes,  as  is  the  fortune  of  war,  we  were  discomfited. 
And  notably  in  a  great  sea-fight  which  befell  off  Ushant 

on  the  first  of  June Our  amiral,  Messire  Vil- 

laret  Joyeuse,  on  board  his  galleon  named  the  Vengeur, 
being  sore  pressed  by  an  English  bombard,  rather  than 
yield  the  crew  of  his  ship  to  mercy,  determined  to  go 
down  with  all  on  board  of  her :  and,  to  the  cry  of  Vive 

la  Repub or,  I  would  say,  of  Notre  Dame  a  la 

Rescousse,  he  and  his  crew  all  sank  to  an  immortal 
grave-  —  " 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  looking  with  amazement  at  the  old  gen- 
tleman, "  surely,  surely,  there  is  some  mistake  in  your 


DESSEIN'S.  329 

statement.  Permit  me  to  observe  that  the  action  of  the 
first  of  June  took  place  five  hundred  years  after  your 
time,  and  —  " 

"  Perhaps  I  am  confusing  my  dates,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman, with  a  faint  blush.  *'  You  say  I  am  mixing  up 
the  transactions  of  my  time  on  earth  with  the  story  of  my 
successors  ?  It  may  be  so.  We  take  no  count  of  a  few 
centuries  more  or  less  in  our  dwelling  by  the  darkling  Sty- 
gian river.  Of  late,  there  came  amongst  us  a  good  knight, 
Messire  de  Cambronne,  who  fought  against  you  English 
in  the  country  of  Flanders,  being  captain  of  the  guard  of 
my  Lord  the  King  of  France,  in  a  famous  battle  where 
you  English  would  have  been  utterly  routed  but  for  the 
succor  of  the  Prussian  heathen.  This  Messire  de  Cam- 
bronne, when  bidden  to  yield  by  you  of  England,  an- 
swered this,  '  The  guard  dies  but  never  surrenders ' ;  and 
fought  a  long  time  afterwards,  as  became  a  good  knight. 
In  our  wars  with  you  of  England  it  may  have  pleased  the 
Fates  to  give  you  the  greater  success,  but  on  our  side, 
also,  there  has  been  no  lack  of  brave  deeds  performed  by 
brave  men." 

"  King  Edward  may  have  been  the  victor,  sir,  as  being 
the  strongest,  but  you  are  the  hero  of  the  siege  of  Calais  ! " 
cried  Mr.  Sterne.  "  Your  story  is  sacred,  and  your  name 
has  been  blessed  for  five  hundred  years.  Wherever  men 
speak  of  patriotism  and  sacrifice,  Eustace,  of  Saint  Pierre, 
shall  be  beloved  and  remembered.  I  prostrate  myself 
before  the  bare  feet  which  stood  before  King  Edward. 
What  collar  of  chivalry  is  to  be  compared  to  that  glori- 
ous order  which  you  wear  ?  Think,  sir,  how,  out  of  the 
myriad  millions  of  our  race,  you,  and  some  few  more, 
stand  forth  as  exemplars  of  duty  and  honor.  Fortunati 
nimium  !  " 


330  DESSEIN'S. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  I  did  but  my  duty  at  a 
painful  moment ;  and  't  is  matter  of  wonder  to  me  that 
men  talk  still,  and  glorify  such  a  trifling  matter.  By  our 
Lady's  grace,  in  the  fair  kingdom  of  France,  there  are 
scores  of  thousands  of  men,  gentle  and  simple,  who  would 
do  as  I  did.  Does  not  every  sentinel  at  his  post,  does 
not  every  archer  in  the  front  of  battle,  brave  it,  and  die 
where  his  captain  bids  him  ?  Who  am  I  that  I  should  be 
chosen  out  of  all  France  to  be  an  example  of  fortitude  ? 
I  braved  no  tortures,  though  these  I  trust  I  would  have 
endured  with  a  good  heart.  I  was  subject  to  threats 
only.  Who  was  the  Roman  knight  of  whom  the  Latin 
clerk  Horatius  tells  ?  " 

"  A  Latin  clerk  ?  Faith,  I  forget  my  Latin,"  says 
Mr.  Brummell.  "  Ask  the  parson  here." 

"  Messire  Regulus,  I  remember,  was  his  name.  Taken 
prisoner  by  the  Saracens,  he  gave  his  knightly  word,  and 
was  permitted  to  go  seek  a  ransom  among  his  own  peo- 
ple. Being  unable  to  raise  the  sum  that  was  a  fitting  ran- 
som for  such  a  knight,  he  returned  to  Afric,  and  cheerfully 
submitted  to  the  tortures  which  the  Paynims  inflicted. 
And  'tis  said  he  took  leave  of  his  friends  as  gayly  as 
though  he  were  going  to  a  village  kermes,  or  riding  to  his 
garden  house  in  the  suburb  of  the  city." 

"  Great,  good,  glorious  man  !  "  cried  Mr.  Sterne,  very 
much  moved.  "  Let  me  embrace  that  gallant  hand,  and 
bedew  it  with  my  tears  !  As  long  as  honor  lasts  thy 
name  shall  be  remembered.  See  this  dew-drop  twinkling 
on  my  cheek  !  'T  is  the  sparkling  tribute  that  Sensibility 
pays  to  Valor.  Though  in  my  life  and  practice  I  may 
turn  from  Virtue,  believe  me,  I  never  have  ceased  to 
honor  her !  Ah,  Virtue  !  Ah,  Sensibility  !  O  —  " 

Here  Mr.  Sterne  was  interrupted  by  a  monk  of  the 


DESSEIN'S.  331 

Order  of  St.  Francis  who  stepped  into  the  room,  and  beg- 
ged us  all  to  take  a  pinch  of  his  famous  old  rappee.  I 
suppose  the  snuff  was  very  pungent,  for,  with  a  great 
start,  I  woke  up ;  and  now  perceived  that  I  must  have 
been  dreaming  altogether.  Dessein's  of  now-a-days  is  not 
the  Dessein's  which  Mr.  Sterne,  and  Mr.  Brummell,  and 
I,  recollect  in  the  good  old  times.  The  town  of  Calais 
has  bought  the  old  hotel,  and  Dessein  has  gone  over  to 
Quillacq's.  And  I  was  there  yesterday.  And  I  remem- 
ber old  diligences,  and  old  postilions  in  pig-tails  and  jack- 
boots, who  were  once  as  alive  as  I  am,  and  whose  cracking 
whips  I  have  heard  in  the  midnight  many  and  many  a 
time.  Now,  where  are  they  ?  Behold,  they  have  been 
ferried  over  Styx,  and  have  passed  away  into  limbo. 

I  wonder  what  time  does  my  boat  go  ?     Ah !     Here 
comes  the  waiter  bringing  me  my  little  bill. 


ON    A    PEAR-TREE. 


GRACIOUS  reader  no  doubt  has  remarked 
that  these  humble  sermons  have  for  subjects 
some  little  event  which  happens  at  the  preach- 
er's own  gate,  or  which  falls  under  his  pe- 
culiar cognizance.  Once,  you  may  remember,  we  dis- 
coursed about  a  chalk-mark  on  the  door.  This  morning 
Betsy,  the  housemaid,  comes  with  a  frightened  look,  and 
says,  "  Law,  mum !  there  's  three  bricks  taken  out  of  the 
garden-wall,  and  the  branches  broke,  and  all  the  pears 
taken  off  the  pear-tree ! "  Poor  peaceful  suburban  pear- 
tree  !  Jail-birds  have  hopped  about  thy  branches,  and 
robbed  them  of  their  smoky  fruit.  But  those  bricks  re- 
moved; that  ladder  evidently  prepared,  by  which  un- 
known marauders  may  enter  and  depart  from  my  little 
Englishman's  castle ;  is  not  this  a  subject  of  thrilling 
interest,  and  may  it  not  be  continued  in  a  future  number  ? 
—  that  is  the  terrible  question.  Suppose,  having  escalad- 
ed  the  outer  wall,  the  miscreants  take  a  fancy  to  storm 
the  castle  ?  Well  —  well !  we  are  armed ;  we  are  numer- 
ous ;  we  are  men  of  tremendous  courage,  who  will  de- 
fend our  spoons  with  our  lives ;  and  there  are  barracks 
close  by  (thank  goodness ! )  whence,  at  the  noise  of  our 
shouts  and  firing  at  least  a  thousand  bayonets  will  bristle 
to  our  rescue. 


ON  A  PEAR-TREE.  333 

What  sound  is  yonder  ?  A  church  bell.  I  might  go 
myself,  but  how  listen  to  the  sermon  ?  I  am  think- 
ing of  those  thieves  who  have  made  a  ladder  of  my  wall, 
and  a  prey  of  my  pear-tree.  They  may  be  walking  to 
church  at  this  moment,  neatly  shaved,  in  clean  linen,  with 
every  outward  appearance  of  virtue.  If  I  went,  I  know 
I  should  be  watching  the  congregation,  and  thinking,  "  Is 
that  one  of  the  fellows  who  came  over  my  wall  ?  "  If, 
after  the  reading  of  the  eighth  Commandment,  a  man 
sang  out  with  particular  energy,  "  Incline  our  hearts  to 
keep  this  law,"  I  should  think,  "  Aha,  Master  Basso,  did 
you  have  pears  for  breakfast  this  morning  ?  "  Crime  is 
walking  round  me,  that  is  clear.  Who  is  the  perpetra- 
tor ?  ....  What  a  changed  aspect  the  world  has,  since 
these  last  few  lines  were  written !  I  have  been  walking 
round  about  my  premises,  and  in  consultation  with  a  gen- 
tleman in  a  single-breasted  blue  coat,  with  pewter  but- 
tons, and  a  tape  ornament  on  the  collar.  He  has  looked 
at  the  holes  in  the  wall,  and  the  amputated  tree.  We 
have  formed  our  plan  of  defence, — perhaps  of  attack. 
Perhaps  some  day  you  may  read  in  the  papers :  "  DAR- 
ING ATTEMPT  AT  BURGLARY,  —  HEROIC  VICTORY 
OVER  THE  VILLAINS,"  &c.,  &c.  Rascals  as  yet  un- 
known !  perhaps  you,  too,  may  read  these  words,  and  may 
be  induced  to  pause  in  your  fatal  intention.  Take  the 
advice  of  a  sincere  friend,  and  keep  off.  To  find  a  man 
writhing  in  my  man-trap,  another  mayhap  impaled  in  my 
ditch,  to  pick  off  another  from  my  tree  (scoundrel !  as 
though  he  were  a  pear),  will  give  me  no  pleasure ; 
but  such  things  may  happen.  Be  warned  in  time,  vil- 
lains !  Or,  if  you  must  pursue  your  calling  as  cracks- 
men, have  the  goodness  to  try  some  other  shutters. 
Enough !  subside  into  your  darkness,  children  of  night ! 


334  ON  A  PEAR-TREE. 

Thieves !  we  seek  not  to  have  you  hanged,  —  you  are 
but  as  pegs  whereon  to  hang  others. 

I  may  have  said  before,  that  if  I  were  going  to  be  hanged 
myself,  I  think  I  should  take  an  accurate  note  of  my  sen- 
sations, request  to  stop  at  some  public-house  on  the  road 
to  Tyburn,  and  be  provided  with  a  private  room  and 
writing  materials,  and  give  an  account  of  my  state  of 
mind.  Then,  gee  up,  carter  !  I  beg  your  reverence  to 
continue  your  apposite,  though  not  novel,  remarks  on  my 
situation  ;  —  and  so  we  drive  up  to  Tyburn  turnpike, 
where  an  expectant  crowd,  the  obliging  sheriffs,  and  the 
dexterous  and  rapid  Mr.  Ketch  are  already  in  waiting. 

A  number  of  laboring  people  are  sauntering  about  our 
streets,  and  taking  their  rest  on  this  holiday,  —  fellows 
who  have  no  more  stolen  my  pears  than  they  have  robbed 
the  crown  jewels  out  of  the  Tower,  —  and  I  say  I  cannot 
help  thinking  in  my  own  mind,  "  Are  you  the  rascal  who 
got  over  my  wall  last  night  ?  "  Is  the  suspicion  haunt- 
ing my  mind  written  on  my  countenance  ?  I  trust  not. 
"What  if  one  man  after  another  were  to  come  up  to  me 
and  say,  "  How  dare  you,  sir,  suspect  me  in  your  mind 
of  stealing  your  fruit?  Go  be  hanged,  you  and  your 
jargonels  ! "  You  rascal  thief!  it  is  not  merely  three 
halfp'orth  of  sooty  fruit  you  rob  me  of,  it  is  my  peace  of 
mind,  —  my  artless  innocence  and  trust  in  my  fellow- 
creatures,  my  childlike  belief  that  everything  they  say 
is  true.  How  can  I  hold  out  the  hand  of  friendship  in 
this  condition,  when  my  first  impression  is,  "  My  good  sir, 
I  strongly  suspect  that  you  were  up  my  pear-tree  last 
night  ?  "  It  is  a  dreadful  state  of  mind.  The  core  is  black ; 
the  death-stricken  fruit  drops  on  the  bough,  and  a  great 
worm  is  within,  —  fattening  and  feasting  and  wriggling ! 
Who  stole  the  pears  ?  I  say.  Is  it  you,  brother  ?  Is  it 


ON  A  PEAR-TREE.  335 

you,  madam  ?  Come  !  are  you  ready  to  answer,  —  re- 
spondere  parati  et  cantare  pares  ?  (O  shame  !  shame  ! ) 

Will  the  villains  ever  be  discovered  and  punished  who 
stole  my  fruit  ?  Some  unlucky  rascals  who  rob  orchards 
are  caught  up  the  tree  at  once.  Some  rob  through  life 
with  impunity.  If  I,  for  my  part,  were  to  try  and  get  up 
the  smallest  tree,  on  the  darkest  night,  in  the  most  remote 
orchard,  I  wager  any  money  I  should  be  found  out,  — be 
caught  by  the  leg  in  a  man-trap,  or  have  Towler  fasten- 
ing on  me.  I  always  am  found  out ;  have  been  ;  shall 
be.  It 's  my  luck.  Other  men  will  carry  off  bushels  of 
fruit,  and  get  away  undetected,  unsuspected ;  whereas  I 
know  woe  and  punishment  would  fall  upon  me  were  I  to 
lay  my  hand  on  the  smallest  pippin.  So  be  it.  A  man 
who  has  this  precious  self-knowledge  will  surely  keep  his 
hands  from  picking  and  stealing,  and  his  feet  upon  the 
paths  of  virtue. 

I  will  assume,  my  benevolent  friend  and  present  read- 
er, that  you  yourself  are  virtuous,  not  from  a  fear  of  pun- 
ishment, but  from  a  sheer  love  of  good :  but  as  you  and  I 
walk  through  life,  consider  what  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
rascals  we  must  have  met,  who  have  not  been  found  out 
at  all.  In  high  places  and  low,  in  Clubs  and  on  'Change, 
at  church,  or  the  balls  and  routs  of  the  nobility  and  gentry, 
how  dreadful  it  is  for  benevolent  beings  like  you  and  me 
to  have  to  think  these  undiscovered  though  not  unsus- 
pected scoundrels  are  swarming  !  What  is  the  difference 
between  you  and  a  galley-slave  ?  Is  yonder  poor  wretch  at 
the  hulks  not  a  man  and  a  brother  too  ?  Have  you  ever 
forged,  my  dear  sir  ?  Have  you  ever  cheated  your  neigh- 
bor ?  Have  you  ever  ridden  to  Hounslow  Heath  and 
robbed  the  mail?  Have  you  ever  entered  a  first-class 
railway  carriage,  where  an  old  gentleman  sat  alone  in  a 


336  ON  A  PEAR-TREE. 

sweet  sleep,  daintily  murdered  him,  taken  his  pocket- 
book,  and  got  out  at  the  next  station  ?  You  know  that 
this  circumstance  occurred  in  France  a  few  months  since. 
If  we  have  travelled  in  France  this  autumn  we  may  have 
met  the  ingenious  gentleman  who  perpetrated  this  daring 
and  successful  coup.  We  may  have  found  him  a  well- 
informed  and  agreeable  man.  I  have  been  acquainted 
with  two  or  three  gentlemen  who  have  been  discovered 
after  —  after  the  performance  of  illegal  actions.  What  ? 
That  agreeable,  rattling  fellow  we  met  was  the  celebra- 
ted Mr.  John  Sheppard  ?  Was  that  amiable,  quiet  gen- 
tleman in  spectacles  the  well-known  Mr.  Fauntleroy  ? 
In  Hazlitt's  admirable  paper,  "  Going  to  a  Fight,"  he  de- 
scribes a  dashing  sporting  fellow  who  was  in  the  coach, 
and  who  was  no  less  a  man  than  the  eminent  destroyer 
of  Mr.  William  Weare.  Don't  tell  me  that  you  would 
not  like  to  have  met  (out  of  business)  Captain  Sheppard, 
the  Reverend  Doctor  Dodd,  or  others  rendered  famous  by 
their  actions  and  misfortunes,  by  their  lives  and  their 
deaths.  They  are  the  subjects  of  ballads,  the  heroes  of 
romance.  A  friend  of  mine  had  the  house  in  May  Fair, 
out  of  which  poor  Doctor  Dodd  was  taken  handcuffed. 
There  was  the  paved  hall  over  which  he  stepped.  That 
little  room  at  the  side  was,  no  doubt,  the  study  where  he 
composed  his  elegant  sermons.  Two  years  since  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  partake  of  some  admirable  dinners  in 
Tyburnia,  —  magnificent  dinners  indeed  ;  but  rendered 
doubly  interesting  from  the  fact  that  the  house  was  that 
occupied  by  the  late  Mr.  Sadleir.  One  night  the  late 
Mr.  Sadleir  took  tea  in  that  dining-room,  and,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  his  butler,  went  out,  having  put  into  his  pocket 
his  own  cream-jug.  The  next  morning,  you  know,  he 
was  found  dead  on  Hampstead  Heath,  with  the  cream-jug 


ON  A  PEAR-TREE.  337 

lying  by  him,  into  which  he  had  poured  the  poison  by 
which  he  died.  The  idea  of  the  ghost  of  the  late  gentle- 
man flitting  about  the  room  gave  a  strange  interest  to  the 
banquet.  Can  you  fancy  him  taking  his  tea  alone  in  the 
dining-room  ?  He  empties  that  cream-jug  and  puts  it  in 
his  pocket  ;  and  then  he  opens  yonder  door,  through 
which  he  is  never  to  pass  again.  Now  he  crosses  the 
hall  :  and  hark  !  the  hall-door  shuts  upon  him,  and  his 
steps  die  away.  They  are  gone  into  the  night.  They 
traverse  the  sleeping  city.  They  lead  him  into  the  fields, 
where  the  gray  morning  is  beginning  to  glimmer.  He 
pours  something  from  a  bottle  into  a  little  silver  jug.  It 
touches  his  lips,  the  lying  lips.  Do  they  quiver  a  prayer 
ere  that  awful  draught  is  swallowed?  "When  the  sun 
rises  they  are  dumb. 

I  neither  knew  this  unhappy  man,  nor  his  countryman 
—  Laertes  let  us  call  him  —  who  is  at  present  in  exile, 
having  been  compelled  to  fly  from  remorseless  creditors. 
Laertes  fled  to  America,  where  he  earned  his  bread  by 
his  pen.  I  own  to  having  a  kindly  feeling  towards  this 
scapegrace,  because,  though  an  exile,  he  did  not  abuse  the 
country  whence  he  fled.  I  have  heard  that  he  went  away 
taking  no  spoil  with  him,  —  penniless  almost ;  and  on  his 
voyage  he  made  acquaintance  with  a  certain  Jew ;  and 
when  he  fell  sick,  at  New  York,  this  Jew  befriended  him, 
and  gave  him  help  and  money  out  of  his  own  store,  which 
was  but  small.  Now,  after  they  had  been  awhile  in  the 
strange  city,  it  happened  that  the  poor  Jew  spent  all  his 
little  money,  and  he  too  fell  ill,  and  was  in  great  penury. 
And  now  it  was  Laertes  who  befriended  that  Ebrew 
Jew.  He  fee'd  doctors  ;  he  fed  and  tended  the  sick  and 
hungry.  Go  to,  Laertes !  I  know  thee  not.  It  may  be 
thou  art  justly  exul  patrice.  But  the  Jew  shall  inter- 

15  v 


338  ON  A  PEAR-TREE. 

cede  for  thee,  thou  not,  let  us  trust,  hopeless  Christian 
sinner. 

Another  exile  to  the  same  shore  I  knew  :  who  did  not  ? 
Julius  Caesar  hardly  owed  more  money  than  Cucedicus : 
and,  gracious  powers  !  Cucedicus,  how  did  you  manage 
to  spend  and  owe  so  much  ?  All  day  he  was  at  work  for 
his  clients  ;  at  night  he  was  occupied  in  the  Public  Coun- 
cil. He  neither  had  wife  nor  children.  The  rewards 
which  he  received  from  his  orations  were  enough  to  main- 
tain twenty  rhetoricians.  Night  after  night  I  have  seen 
him  eating  his  frugal  meal,  consisting  but  of  a  fish,  a 
small  portion  of  mutton,  and  a  small  measure  of  Iberian 
or  Trinacrian  wine,  largely  diluted  with  the  sparkling 
waters  of  Rhenish  Gaul.  And  this  was  all  he  had  ;  and 
this  man  earned  and  paid  away  talents  upon  talents  ;  and 
fled,  owing  who  knows  how  many  more  !  Does  a  man 
earn  fifteen  thousand  pounds  a  year,  toiling  by  day,  talk- 
ing by  night,  having  horrible  unrest  in  his  bed,  ghastly 
terrors  at  waking,  seeing  an  officer  lurking  at  every  cor- 
ner, a  sword  of  justice  forever  hanging  over  his  head,  — 
and  have  for  his  sole  diversion  a  newspaper,  a  lonely  mut- 
ton-chop, and  a  little  sherry  and  seltzer-water  ?  In  the 
German  stories  we  read  how  men  sell  themselves  to  —  a 
certain  Personage,  and  that  Personage  cheats  them.  He 
gives  them  wealth;  yes,  but  the  gold  pieces  turn  into 
worthless  leaves.  He  sets  them  before  splendid  banquets  ; 
yes,  but  what  an  awful  grin  that  black  footman  has  who 
lifts  up  the  dish-cover  ;  and  don't  you  smell  a  peculiar 
sulphurous  odor  in  the  dish  ?  Faugh  !  take  it  away  ;  I 
can't  eat.  He  promises  them  splendors  and  triumphs. 
The  conqueror's  car  rolls  glittering  through  the  city,  the 
multitudes  shout  and  huzzah.  Drive  on,  coachman..  Yes, 
but  who  is  that  hanging  on  behind  the  carriage  ?  Is  this 


ON  A  PEAR-TREE.  339 

the  reward  of  eloquence,  talents,  industry  ?  Is  this  the 
end  of  a  life's  labor  ?  Don't  you  remember  how,  when 
the  dragon  was  infesting  the  neighborhood  of  Babylon, 
the  citizens  used  to  walk  dismally  out  of  evenings,  and 
look  at  the  valleys  round  about  strewed  with  the  bones  of 
the  victims  whom  the  monster  had  devoured  ?  O  insa- 
tiate brute,  and  most  disgusting,  brazen,  and  scaly  reptile  ! 
Let  us  be  thankful,  children,  that  it  has  not  gobbled  us 
up  too.  Quick.  Let  us  turn  away,  and  pray  that  we 
may  be  kept  out  of  the  reach  of  his  horrible  maw,  jaw, 
claw ! 

When  I  first  came  up  to  London,  —  as  innocent  as  Mon- 
sieur Gil  Bias,  —  I  also  fell  in  with  some  pretty  acquaint- 
ances, found  my  way  into  several  caverns,  and  delivered 
my  purse  to  more  than  one  gallant  gentleman  of  the 
road.  One  I  remember  especially,  —  one  who  never 
eased  me  personally  of  a  single  maravedi,  —  one  than 
whom  I  never  met  a  bandit  more  gallant,  courteous,  and 
amiable.  Rob  me  ?  Rolando  feasted  me ;  treated  me  to 
his  dinner  and  his  wine  ;  kept  a  generous  table  for  his 
friends,  and  I  know  was  most  liberal  to  many  of  them. 
How  well  I  remember  one  of  his  speculations  !  It  was  a 
great  plan  for  smuggling  tobacco.  Revenue  officers  were 
to  be  bought  off;  silent  ships  were  to  ply  on  the  Thames; 
cunning  depots  were  to  be  established,  and  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  pounds  to  be  made  by  the  coup.  How  his 
eyes  kindled  as  he  propounded  the  scheme  to  me !  How 
easy  and  certain  it  seemed !  It  might  have  succeeded : 
I  can't  say ;  but  the  bold  and  merry,  the  hearty  and 
kindly  Rolando  came  to  grief,  —  a  little  matter  of  imitated 
signatures  occasioned  a  Bank  persecution  of  Rolando  the 
Brave.  He  walked  about  armed,  and  vowed  he  would 
never  be  taken  alive :  but  taken  he  was ;  tried,  con- 


34:0  ON  A  PEAR-TREE. 

demned,  sentenced  to  perpetual  banishment ;  and  I  heard 
that  for  some  time  he  was  universally  popular  in  the 
colony  which  had  the  honor  to  possess  him.  What  a 
song  he  could  sing!  'T  was  when  the  cup  was  sparkling 
before  us,  and  heaven  gave  a  portion  of  its  blue,  boys, 
blue,  that  I  remember  the  song  of  Roland  at  the  old  Pi- 
azza Coffee-house.  And  now  where  is  the  old  Piaz- 
za Coffee-house?  Where  is  Thebes?  where  is  Troy? 
where  is  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  ?  Ah,  Rolando,  Rolan- 
do !  thou  wert  a  gallant  captain,  a  cheery,  a  handsome, 
a  merry.  At  me  thou  never  presentedst  pistol.  Thou 
badest  the  bumper  of  Burgundy  fill,  fill  for  me,  giving 
those  who  preferred  it  champagne.  Ccdum  non  animum, 
&c.  Do  you  think  he  has  reformed  now  that  he  has 
crossed  the  sea,  and  changed  the  air  ?  I  have  my  own 
opinion.  Howbeit,  Rolando,  thou  wert  a  most  kindly 
and  hospitable  bandit.  And  I  love  not  to  think  of  thee 
with  a  chain  at  thy  shin. 

Do  you  know  how  all  these  memories  of  unfortunate 
men  have  come  upon  me  ?  When  they  came  to  frighten 
me  this  morning  by  speaking  of  my  robbed  pears,  my 
perforated  garden  wall,  I  was  reading  an  article  in  the 
"  Saturday  Review "  about  Rupilius.  I  have  sat  near 
that  young  man  at  a  public  dinner,  and  beheld  him  in  a 
gilded  uniform.  But  yesterday  he  lived  in  splendor,  had 
long  hair,  a  flowing  beard,  a  jewel  at  his  neck,  and  a 
smart  surtout.  So  attired,  he  stood  but  yesterday  in 
court ;  and  to-day  he  sits  over  a  bowl  of  prison  cocoa, 
with  a  shaved  head,  and  in  a  felon's  jerkin. 

That  beard  and  head  shaved,  that  gaudy  deputy-lieu- 
tenant's coat  exchanged  for  felon  uniform,  and  your  daily 
bottle  of  champagne  for  prison  cocoa,  my  poor  Rupilius, 
what  a  comfort  it  must  be  to  have  the  business  brought 


ON  A  PEAR-TREE.  341 

to  an  end !  Champagne  was  the  honorable  gentleman's 
drink  in  the  House  of  Commons  dining-room,  as  I  am 
informed.  What  uncommonly  dry  champagne  that  must 
have  been !  When  we  saw  him  outwardly  happy,  how 
miserable  he  must  have  been !  when  we  thought  him 
prosperous,  how  dismally  poor !  When  the  great  Mr. 
Harker,  at  the  public  dinners,  called  out :  "  Gentlemen, 
charge  your  glasses,  and  please  silence  for  the  honorable 
Member  for  Lambeth!"  how  that  honorable  Member 
must  have  writhed  inwardly  !  One  day,  when  there  was 
a  talk  of  a  gentleman's  honor  being  questioned,  Rupilius 
said,  "  If  any  man  doubted  mine,  I  would  knock  him 
down."  But  that  speech  was  in  the  way  of  business. 
The  Spartan  boy,  who  stole  the  fox,  smiled  while  the 
beast  was  gnawing  him  under  his  cloak  :  I  promise  you 
Rupilius  had  some  sharp  fangs  gnashing  under  his.  We 
have  sat  at  the  same  feast,  I  say;  we  have  paid  our 
contribution  to  the  same  charity.  Ah !  when  I  ask  this 
day  for  my  daily  bread,  I  pray  not  to  be  led  into  tempta- 
tion, and  to  be  delivered  from  evil. 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH. 

• 

jEFORE  me  lies  a  coin  bearing  the  image  and 
superscription  of  King  George  IV.,  and  of  the 
nominal  value  of  two-and-sixpence.  But  an 
official  friend  at  a  neighboring  turnpike  says 
the  piece  is  hopelessly  bad ;  and  a  chemist  tested  it,  re- 
turning a  like  unfavorable  opinion.  A  cabman,  who  had 
brought  me  from  a  club,  left  it  with  the  club  porter,  ap- 
pealing to  the  gent  who  gave  it  a  pore  cabby,  at  ever  so 
much  o'clock  of  a  rainy  night,  which  he  hoped  he  would 
give  him  another.  I  have  taken  that  cabman  at  his  word. 
He  has  been  provided  with  a  sound  coin.  The  bad  piece 
is  on  the  table  before  me,  and  shall  have  a  hole  drilled 
through  it,  as  soon  as  this  essay  is  written,  by  a  loyal  sub- 
ject who  does  not  desire  to  deface  the  Sovereign's  fair 
image,  but  to  protest  against  the  rascal  who  has  taken  her 
name  in  vain.  Fid.  Def.,  indeed  !  Is  that  what  you  call 
defending  the  faith  ?  You  dare  to  forge  your  Sovereign's 
name,  and  pass  your  scoundrel  pewter  as  her  silver  ?  I 
wonder  who  you  are,  wretch  and  most  consummate  trick- 
ster ?  This  forgery  is  so  complete  that  even  now  I  am 
deceived  by  it,  —  I  can't  see  the  difference  between  the 
base  and  sterling  metal.  Perhaps  this  piece  is  a  little 
lighter ;  —  I  don't  know.  A  little  softer ;  —  is  it  ?  I  have 
not  bitten  it,  not  being  a  connoisseur  in  the  tasting  of 


ON  A  MEDAL   OF   GEORGE  THE  FOURTH.         343 

pewter  or  silver.  I  take  the  word  of  three  honest  men, 
though  it  goes  against  me :  and  though  I  have  given  two- 
and-sixpence  worth  of  honest  consideration  for  the  coun- 
ter, I  shall  not  attempt  to  implicate  anybody  else  in  my 
misfortune,  or  transfer  my  ill-luck  to  a  deluded  neighbor. 
I  say  the  imitation  is  so  curiously  successful,  the  stamp- 
ing, milling  of  the  edges,  lettering,  and  so  forth,  are  so 
neat,  that  even  now,  when  my  eyes  are  open,  I  cannot 
see  the  cheat.  How  did  those  experts,  the  cabman,  and 
pikeman,  and  tradesman,  come  to  find  it  out  ?  How  do 
they  happen  to  be  more  familiar  with  pewter  and  silver 
than  I  am  ?  You  see,  I  put  out  of  the  question  another 
point  which  I  might  argue  without  fear  of  defeat,  namely, 
the  cabman's  statement  that  I  gave  him  this  bad  piece  of 
money.  Suppose  every  cabman  who  took  me  a  shilling 
fare  were  to  drive  away  and  return  presently  with  a  bad 
coin  and  an  assertion  that  I  had  given  it  to  him  ?  This 
would  be  absurd  and  mischievous ;  an  encouragement  of 
vice  amongst  men  who  already  are  subject  to  temptations. 
Being  homo,  I  think  if  I  were  a  cabman  myself,  I  might 
sometimes  stretch  a  furlong  or  two  in  my  calculations  of 
distance.  But  don't  come  twice,  my  man,  and  tell  me  I 
have  given  you  a  bad  half-crown.  No,  no  !  I  have  paid 
once  like  a  gentleman,  and  once  is  enough.  For  instance, 
during  the  Exhibition  time  I  was  stopped  by  an  old  coun- 
try-woman in  black,  with  a  huge  umbrella,  who,  bursting 
into  tears,  said  to  me,  "  Master,  be  this  the  way  to  Har- 
low,  in  Essex  ?  "  "  This  the  way  to  Harlow  ?  This  is 
the  way  to  Exeter,  my  good  lady,  and  you  will  arrive 
there  if  you  walk  about  170  miles  in  your  present  direc- 
tion," I  answered  courteously,  replying  to  the  old  crea- 
ture. Then  she  fell  a-sobbing  as  though  her  old  heart 
would  break.  She  had  a  daughter  a-dying  at  Harlow. 


344    ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH. 

She  had  walked  already  "vifty  dree  mile"  that  day. 
Tears  stopped  the  rest  of  her  discourse,  so  artless,  genu- 
ine, and  abundant,  that  —  I  own  the  truth  —  I  gave  her, 
in  I  believe  genuine  silver,  a  piece  of  the  exact  size  of 
that  .coin  which  forms  the  subject  of  this  essay.  Well. 
About  a  month  since,  near  to  the  very  spot  where  I  had 
met  my  old  woman,  I  was  accosted  by  a  person  in  black, 
a  person  in  a  large  draggled  cap,  a  person  with  a  huge 
umbrella,  who  was  beginning,  "I  say,  master,  can  you 

tell   me  if  this  be  the  way  to  Har "  but  here  she 

stopped.  Her  eyes  goggled  wildly.  She-  started  from 
me,  as  Macbeth  turned  from  Macduff.  She  would  not 
engage  with  me.  It  was  my  old  friend  of  Harlow,  in 
Essex.  I  dare  say  she  has  informed  many  other  people 
of  her  daughter's  illness,  and  her  anxiety  to  be  put  upon 
the  right  way  to  Harlow.  Not  long  since  a  very  gentle- 
manlike man,  Major  Delamere  let  us  call  him  (I  like  the 
title  of  Major  very  much),  requested  to  see  me,  named  a 
dead  gentleman  who  he  said  had  been  our  mutual  friend, 
and  on  the  strength  of  this  mutual  acquaintance,  begged 
me  to  cash  his  check  for  five  pounds  ! 

It  is  these  things,  my  dear  sir,  which  serve  to  make 
a  man  cynical.  I  do  conscientiously  believe  that,  had  I 
cashed  the  Major's  check,  there  would  have  been  a  dif- 
ficulty about  payment  on  the  part  of  the  respected  bank- 
ers on  whom  he  drew.  On  your  honor  and  conscience, 
do  you  think  that  old  widow  who  was  walking  from  Tun- 
bridge  Wells  to  Harlow  had  a  daughter  ill,  and  was  an 
honest  woman  at  all  ?  The  daughter  could  n't  always, 
you  see,  be  being  ill,  and  her  mother  on  her  way  to  her 
dear  child  through  Hyde  Park.  In  the  same  way  some 
habitual  sneerers  may  be  inclined  to  hint  that  the  cab- 
man's story  was  an  invention,  —  or  at  any  rate,  choose  to 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH.    345 

ride  off  (so  to  speak)  on  the  doubt.  No.  My  opinion,  I 
own,  is  unfavorable  as  regards  the  widow  from  Tunbridge 
Wells,  and  Major  Delamere ;  but,  believing  the  cabman 
was  honest,  I  am  glad  to  think  he  was  not  injured  by  the 
reader's  most  humble  servant. 

What  a  queer,  exciting  life  this  rogue's  march  must 
be  :  this  attempt  of  the  bad  half-crowns  to  get  into  circula- 
tion !  Had  my  distinguished  friend  the  Major  knocked 
at  many  doors  that  morning,  before  operating  on  mine  ? 
The  sport  must  be  something  akin  to  the  pleasure  of  tiger 
or  elephant  hunting.  What  ingenuity  the  sportsman 
must  have  in  tracing  his  prey,  —  what  daring  and  cau- 
tion in  coming  upon  him  !  What  coolness  in  facing  the 
angry  animal  (for,  after  all,  a  man  on  whom  you  draw  a 
check  a  bout  portant  will  be  angry) !  What  a  delicious 
thrill  of  triumph,  if  you  can  bring  him  down  !  If  I  have 
money  at  the  banker's  and  draw  for  a  portion  of  it  over 
the  counter,  that  is  mere  prose,  —  any  dolt  can  do  that. 
But,  having  no  balance,  say,  I  drive  up  in  a  cab,  present 
a  check  at  Coutts's,  and,  receiving  the  amount,  drive  off? 
What  a  glorious  morning's  sport  that  has  been !  How 
superior  in  excitement  to  the  common  transactions  of 
every-day  life  !....!  must  tell  a  story  ;  it  is  against 
myself,  I  know,  but  it  will  out,  and  perhaps  my  mind 
will  be  the  easier. 

More  than  twenty  years  ago,  in  an  island  remarkable 
for  its  verdure,  I  met,  four  or  five  times,  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  companions  with  whom  I  have  passed  a  night. 
I  heard  that  evil  times  had  come  upon  this  gentleman  ; 
and,  overtaking  him  in  a  road  near  rny  own  house  one 
evening,  I  asked  him  to  come  home  to  dinner.  In  two 
days  he  was  at  my  door  again.  At  breakfast-time  was 
this  second  appearance.  He  was  in  a  cab  (of  course  he 
15* 


346    ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEOKGE  THE  FOURTH. 

was  in  a  cab,  they  always  are,  these  unfortunate,  these 
courageous  men).  To  deny  myself  was  absurd.  My 
friend  could  see  me  over  the  parlor  blinds,  surrounded  by 
my  family,  and  cheerfully  partaking  the  morning  meal. 
Might  he  have  a  word  with  me  ?  and  can  you  imagine  its 
purport  ?  By  the  most  provoking  delay,  —  his  uncle  the 
admiral  not  being  able  to  come  to  town  till  Friday,  — 
would  I  cash  him  a  check  ?  I  need  not  say  it  would  be 
paid  on  Saturday  without  fail.  I  tell  you  that  man  went 
away  with  money  in  his  pocket,  and  I  regret  to  add  that 
his  gallant  relative  has  not  come  to  town  yet! 

Laying  down  the  pen,  and  sinking  back  in  my  chair, 
here,  perhaps,  I  fall  into  a  five  minutes'  reverie,  and  think 
of  one,  two,  three,  half  a  dozen  cases  in  which  I  have 
been  content  to  accept  that  sham  promissory  coin  in  re- 
turn for  sterling  money  advanced.  Not  a  reader,  what- 
ever his  age,  but  could  tell  a  like  story.  I  vow  and  be- 
lieve there  are  men  of  fifty,  who  will  dine  well  to-day, 
who  have  not  paid  their  school  debts  yet,  and  who  have 
not  taken  up  their  long-protested  promises  to  pay.  Tom, 
Dick,  Harry,  my  boys,  I  owe  you  no  grudge,  and  rather 
relish  that  wince  with  which  you  will  read  these  meek 
lines  and  say,  "  He  means  me."  Poor  Jack  in  Hades ! 
Do  you  remember  a  certain  pecuniary  transaction,  and  a 
little  sum  of  money  you  borrowed  "  until  the  meeting  of 
Parliament "  ?  Parliament  met  often  in  your  lifetime  : 
Parliament  has  met  since  :  but  I  think  I  should  scarce  be 
more  surprised  if  your  ghost  glided  into  the  room  now, 
and  laid  down  the  amount  of  our  little  account,  than  I 
should  have  been  if  you  had  paid  me  in  your  lifetime 
with  the  actual  acceptances  of  the  Bank  of  England. 
You  asked  to  borrow,  but  you  never  intended  to  pay.  I 
would  as  soon  have  believed  that  a  promissory  note  of 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH.    347 

Sir  John  Falstaff  (accepted  by  Messrs.  Bardolph  and 
Nym,  and  payable  in  Aldgate,)  would  be  as  sure  to  find 
payment,  as  that  note  of  the  departed  —  nay,  lamented 

—  Jack  Thriftless. 

He  who  borrows,  meaning  to  pay,  is  quite  a  different 
person  from  the  individual  here  described.  Many  — 
most,  I  hope  —  took  Jack's  promise  for  what  it  was 
worth,  —  and  quite  well  knew  that  when  he  said,  "  Lend 
me,"  he  meant  "  Give  me  "  twenty  pounds.  "  Give  me 
change  for  this  half-crown,"  said  Jack  ;  I  know  it 's  a 
pewter  piece,  and  you  gave  him  the  change  in  honest  sil- 
ver, and  pocketed  the  counterfeit  gravely. 

What  a  queer  consciousness  that  must  be  which  ac- 
companies such  a  man  in  his  sleeping,  in  his  waking,  in 
his  walk  through  life,  by  his  fireside  with  his  children 
round  him !  "  For  what  we  are  going  to  receive,"  &c., 

—  he  says  grace  before  his  dinner.     "  My  dears  !     Shall 
I  help  you  to  some  mutton  ?     I  robbed  the  butcher  of 
the  meat.     I  don't  intend  to  pay  him.     Johnson,  my  boy, 
a  glass  of  champagne  ?     Very  good,  is  n't  it  ?     Not  too 
sweet.     Forty-six.     I  get  it  from  So-and-so,  whom  I  in- 
tend to  cheat."     As  eagles  go  forth  and  bring  home  to 
their  eaglets  the  lamb  or  the  pavid  kid,  I  say  there  are 
men  who  live  and  victual  their  nests  by  plunder.     We 
all  know  highway  robbers  in  white  neckcloths,  domestic 
bandits,  marauders,  passers  of  bad  coin.     What  was  yon- 
der check  which  Major  Delamere  proposed  I  should  cash 
but  a  piece  of  bad  money  ?     What  was  Jack  Thriftless's 
promise  to  pay  ?     Having  got  his  booty,  I  fancy  Jack 
or  the  Major  returning  home,  and  wife  and  children  gath- 
ering round  about  him.     Poor  wife  and  children  !     They 
respect  papa  very  likely.     They  don't  know  he  is  false 
coin.     Maybe  the  wife  has  a  dreadful   inkling  of   the 


348    ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH. 

truth,  and,  sickening,  tries  to  hide  it  from  the  daughters 
and  sons.  Maybe  she  is  an  accomplice :  herself  a  brazen 
forgery.  If  Turpin  and  Jack  Sheppard  were  married, 
very  likely  Mesdames  Sheppard  and  Turpin  did  not 
know,  at  first,  what  their  husbands'  real  profession  was, 
and  fancied,  when  the  men  left  home  in  the  morning, 
they  only  went  away  to  follow  some  regular  and  honor- 
able business.  Then  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  may  have 
come ;  then  a  dreadful  revelation ;  and  presently  we 
have  the  guilty  pair  robbing  together,  or  passing  forged 
money  each  on  his  own  account.  You  know  Doctor  Dodd? 
I  wonder  whether  his  wife  knows  that  he  is  a  forger, 
and  scoundrel  ?  Has  she  had  any  of  the  plunder,  think 
you,  and  were  the  darling  children's  new  dresses  bought 
with  it  ?  The  Doctor's  sermon  last  Sunday  was  certainly 
charming,  and  we  all  cried.  Ah,  my  poor  Dodd! 
Whilst  he  is  preaching  most  beautifully,  pocket-handker- 
chief in  hand,  he  is  peering  over  the  pulpit  cushions, 
looking  out  piteously  for  Messrs.  Peachum  and  Lockit 
from  the  police-office.  By  Doctor  Dodd  you  understand 
I  would  typify  the  rogue  of  respectable  exterior,  not  com- 
mitted to  jail  yet,  but  not  undiscovered.  We  all  know 
one  or  two  such.  This  very  sermon,  perhaps,  will  be 
read  by  some,  or  more  likely,  —  for,  depend  upon  it,  your 
solemn  hypocritic  scoundrels  don't  care  much  for  light 
literature,  —  more  likely,  I  say,  this  discourse  will  be 
read  by  some  of  their  wives,  who  think,  "  Ah  mercy ! 
does  that  horrible  cynical  wretch  know  how  my  poor  hus- 
band blacked  my  eye,  or  abstracted  mamma's  silver  tea- 
pot, or  forced  me  to  write  So-and-so's  name  on  that  piece 
of  stamped  paper,  or  what  not  ?  "  My  good  creature,  I 
am  not  angry  with  you.  If  your  husband  has  broken 
your  nose,  you  will  vow  that  he  had  authority  over  your 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH.         349 

person,  and  a  right  to  demolish  any  part  of  it ;  if  he  has 
conveyed  away  your  mamma's  teapot,  you  will  say  that 
she  gave  it  to  him  at  your  marriage,  and  it  was  very  ugly, 
and  what  not :  if  he  takes  your  aunt's  watch,  and  you  love 
him,  you  will  carry  it  erelong  to  the  pawnbroker's,  and  per- 
jure yourself,  —  O,  how  you  will  perjure  yourself,  —  in 
the  witness-box !  I  know  this  is  a  degrading  view  of  wom- 
an's noble  nature,  her  exalted  mission,  and  so  forth,  and 
so  forth.  I  know  you  will  say  this  is  bad  morality.  Is 
it  ?  Do  you,  or  do  you  not,  expect  your  womankind  to 
stick  by  you  for  better  or  for  worse  ?  Say  I  have  com- 
mitted a  forgery,  and  the  officers  come  in  search  of  me, 
is  my  wife,  Mrs.  Dodd,  to  show  them  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  say,  "  Pray  step  in,  gentlemen !  My  husband 
has  just  come  home  from  church.  That  bill  with  my 
Lord  Chesterfield's  acceptance,  I  am  bound  to  own,  was 
never  written  by  his  lordship,  and  the  signature  is  in  the 
doctor's  handwriting  "  ?  I  say,  would  any  man  of  sense, 
or  honor,  or  fine  feeling,  praise  his  wife  for  telling  the 
truth  under  such  circumstances?  Suppose  she  made  a 
fine  grimace,  and  said,  "  Most  painful  as  my  position  is, 
most  deeply  as  I  feel  for  my  William,  yet  truth  must 
prevail,  and. I  deeply  lament  to  state  that  the  beloved 
partner  of  my  life  did  commit  the  flagitious  act  with 
which  he  is  charged,  and  is  at  this  present  moment  locat- 
ed in  the  two-pair  back,  up  the  chimney,  whither  it  is  my 
duty  to  lead  you."  Why,  even  Dodd  himself,  who  was 
one  of  the  greatest  humbugs  who  ever  lived,  would  not 
have  had  the  face  to  say  that  he  approved  of  his  wife 
telling  the  truth  in  such  a  case.  Would  you  have  had 
Flora  Macdonald  beckon  the  officers,  saying,  "  This  way, 
gentlemen !  You  will  find  the  young  chevalier  asleep  in 
that  cavern."  Or  don't  you  prefer  her  to  be  splendide 


350    ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH. 

mendax,  and  ready  at  all  risks  to  save  him  ?  If  ever  I 
lead  a  rebellion,  and  my  women  betray  me,  may  I  be 
hanged  but  I  will  not  forgive  them ;  and  if  ever  I  steal  a 
teapot,  and  my  women  don't  stand  up  for  me,  pass  the 
articles  under  their  shawls,  whisk  down  the  street  with 
it,  outbluster  the  policeman,  and  utter  any  amount  of  fibs 
before  Mr.  Beak ;  those  beings  are  not  what  I  take  them 
to  be,  and  —  for  a  fortune  —  I  won't  give  them  so  much 
as  a  bad  half-crown. 

Is  conscious  guilt  a  source  of  unmixed  pain  to  the 
bosom  which  harbors  it  ?  Has  not  your  criminal,  on  the 
contrary,  an  excitement,  an  enjoyment  within  quite  un- 
known to  you  and  me  who  never  did  anything  wrong  in 
our  lives  ?  The  housebreaker  must  snatch  a  fearful  joy 
as  he  walks  unchallenged  by  the  policeman  with  his  sack 
full  of  spoons  and  tankards.  Do  not  cracksmen,  when 
assembled  together,  entertain  themselves  with  stories  of 
glorious  old  burglaries  which  they  or  by-gone  heroes  have 
committed  ?  But  that  my  age  is  mature  and  my  habits 
formed  I  should  really  just  like  to  try  a  little  criminality. 
Fancy  passing  a  forged  bill  to  your  banker ;  calling  on  a 
friend  and  sweeping  his  sideboard  of  plate,  his  hall  of 
umbrellas  and  coats;  and  then  going  home . to  dress  for 
dinner,  say,  —  and  to  meet  a  bishop,  a  judge,  and  a  po- 
lice magistrate  or  so,  and  talk  more  morally  than  any 
man  at  table !  How  I  should  chuckle  (as  my  host's 
spoons  clinked  softly  in  my  pocket)  whilst  I  was  uttering 
some  noble  speech  about  virtue,  duty,  charity  !  I  wonder 
do  we  meet  garroters  in  society?  In  an  average  tea- 
party,  now,  how  many  returned  convicts  are  there? 
Does  John  Footman,  when  he  asks  permission  to  go  and 
spend  the  evening  with  some  friends,  pass  his  time  in 
thuggee ;  waylay  and  strangle  an  old  gentleman  or  two ; 
let  himself  into  your  house,  with  the  house-key,  of 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH.         351 

course,  and  appear  as  usual  with  the  shaving-water  when 
you  ring  your  bell  in  the  morning  ?  The  very  possibility 
of  such  a  suspicion  invests  John  with  a  new  and  roman- 
tic interest  in  my  mind.  Behind  the  grave  politeness  of 
his  countenance  I  try  and  read  the  lurking  treason. 
Full  of  this  pleasing  subject,  I  have  been  talking  thief- 
stories  with  a  neighbor.  The  neighbor  tells  me  how 
some  friends  of  her's  used  to  keep  a  jewel-box  under  a 
bed  in  their  room  ;  and,  going  into  the  room,  they  thought 
they  heard  a  noise  under  the  bed.  They  had  the  courage 
to  look.  The  cook  was  under  the  bed,  —  under  the  bed 
with  the  jewel-box.  Of  course  she  said  she  had  come 
for  purposes  connected  with  her  business;  but  this  was 
absurd.  A  cook  under  a  bed  is  not  there  for  professional 
purposes.  A  relation  of  mine  had  a  box  containing  dia- 
monds under  her  bed,  which  diamonds  she  told  me  were 
to  be  mine.  Mine !  One  day,  at  dinner-time,  between 
the  entrees  and  the  roast,  a  cab  drove  away  from  my 
relative's  house  containing  the  box  wherein  lay  the  dia- 
monds. John  laid  the  dessert,  brought  the  coffee,  waited 
all  the  evening,  —  and  0,  how  frightened  he  was  when 
he  came  to  learn  that  his  mistress's  box  had  been  con- 
veyed out  of  her  own  room,  and  it  contained  diamonds, 
— "  Law  bless  us,  did  it  now  ? "  I  wonder  whether 
John's  subsequent  career  has  been  prosperous  ?  Per- 
haps the  gentlemen  from  Bow  Street  were  all  in  the 
wrong  when  they  agreed  in  suspecting  John  as  the  author 
of  the  robbery.  His  noble  nature  was  hurt  at  the  sus- 
picion. You  conceive  he  would  not  like  to  remain  in  a 
family  where  they  were  mean  enough  to  suspect  him  of 
stealing  a  jewel-box  out  of  a  bedroom,  —  and  the  injured 
man  and  my  relatives  soon  parted.  But,  inclining  (with 
my  usual  cynicism)  to  think  that  he  did  steal  the  valua- 
bles, think  of  his  life  for  the  month  or  two  whilst  he  still 


352         ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH. 

remains  in  the  service !  He  shows  the  officers  over  the 
house,  agrees  with  them  that  the  coup  must  have  been 
made  by  persons  familiar  with  it ;  gives  them  every  as- 
sistance; pities  his  master  and  mistress  with  a  manly 
compassion ;  points  out  what  a  cruel  misfortune  it  is  to 
himself  as  an  honest  man,  with  his  living  to  get  and  his 
family  to  provide  for,  that  this  suspicion  should  fall  on 
him.  Finally,  he  takes  leave  of  his  place,  with  a  deep 
though  natural  melancholy  that  ever  he  had  accepted  it. 
What 's  a  thousand  pounds  to  gentlefolks  ?  A  loss,  cer- 
tainly ;  but  they  will  live  as  well  without  the  diamonds 
as  with  them.  But  to  John  his  Hhhonor  was  worth 
more  than  diamonds,  his  Hhonor  was.  Whohever  is  to 
give  him  back  his  character?  Who  is  to  prevent  hany 
one  from  saying,  "  Ho  yes.  This  is  the  butler  which  was 
in  the  family  where  the  diamonds  was  stole  ?  "  &c. 

I  wonder  has  John  prospered  in  life  subsequently  ?  If 
he  is  innocent,  he  does  not  interest  me  in  the  least. 
The  interest  of  the  case  lies  in  John's  behavior  supposing 
him  to  be  guilty.  Imagine  the  smiling  face,  the  daily 
service,  the  orderly  performance  of  duty,  whilst  within 
John  is  suffering  pangs  lest  discovery  should  overtake 
him.  Every  bell  of  the  door  which  he  is  obliged  to  open 
may  bring  a  police  officer.  The  accomplices  may  peach. 
What  an  exciting  life  John's  must  have  been  for  a  while. 
And  now,  years  and  years  after,  when  pursuit  has  long 
ceased,  and  detection  is  impossible,  does  he  ever  revert  to 
the  little  transaction  ?  Is  it  possible  those  diamonds  cost 
a  thousand  pounds  ?  What  a  rogue  the  fence  must  have 
been  who  only  gave  him  so  and  so  !  And  I  pleasingly 
picture  to  myself  an  old  ex-butler  and  an  ancient  receiver 
of  stolen  goods  meeting  and  talking  over  this  matter, 
which  dates  from  times  so  early  that  the  Queen's  fair 
image  could  only  just  have  begun  to  be  coined  or  forged. 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH.    353 

I  choose  to  take  John  at  the  time  when  his  little  pec- 
cadillo is  suspected,  perhaps,  but  when  there  is  no  specific 
charge  of  robbery  against  him.  He  is  not  yet  convicted  : 
he  is  not  even  on  his  trial ;  how  then  can  we  venture  to 
say  he  is  guilty  ?  Now  think  what  scores  of  men  and 
women  walk  the  world  in  a  like  predicament ;  and  what 
false  coin  passes  current !  Pinchbeck  strives  to  pass  off 
his  history  as  sound  coin.  He  knows  it  is  only  base 
metal,  washed  over  with  a  thin  varnish  of  learning.  Polu- 
phloisbos  puts  his  sermons  in  circulation  :  sounding  brass, 
lackered  over  with  white  metal,  and  marked  with  the 
stamp  and  image  of  piety.  What  say  you  to  Dra wean- 
sir's  reputation  as  a  military  commander  ?  to  Tibbs's  pre- 
tensions to  be  a  fine  gentleman  ?  to  Sapphira's  claims  as 
a  poetess,  or  Rodoessa's  as  a  beauty  ?  His  bravery,  his 
piety,  high  birth,  genius,  beauty,  —  each  of  these  deceiv- 
ers would  palm  his  falsehood  on  u*,  and  have  us  accept 
his  forgeries  as  sterling  coin.  And  we  talk  here,  please 
to  observe,  of  weaknesses  rather  than  crimes.  Some  of 
us  have  more  serious  things  to  hide  than  a  yellow  cheek 
behind  a  raddle  of  rouge,  or  a  white  poll  under  a  wig  of 
jetty  curls.  You  know,  neighbor,  there  are  not  only 
false  teeth  in  this  world,  but  false  tongues  :  and  some 
make  up  a  bust  and  an  appearance  of  strength  with  pad- 
ding, cotton,  and  what  not ;  while  another  kind  of  artist 
tries  to  take  you  in  by  wearing  under  his  waistcoat,  and 
perpetually  thumping,  an  immense  sham  heart.  Dear 
sir,  may  yours  and  mine  be  found,  at  the  right  time,  of 
the  proper  size  and  in  the  right  place. 

And  what  has  this  to  do  with  half-crowns,  good  or  bad  ? 
Ah,  friend  !  may  our  coin,  battered,  and  clipped,  and  de- 
faced though  it  be,  be  proved  to  be  Sterling  Silver  on  the 
day  of  the  Great  Assay  ! 


ON    ALEXANDRINES. 

A    LETTER    TO    SOME    COUNTRY    COUSINS 


EAR  COUSINS,  —  Be  pleased  to  receive  here- 
with a  packet  of  MayaH's  photographs,  and 
copies  of  "  Illustrated  News,"  "  Illustrated 
Times,"  "  London  Review,"  "  Queen,"  and 
"  Observer,"  each  containing  an  account  of  the  notable 
festivities  of  the  past  week.  If  besides  these  remem- 
brances of  home  you  have  a  mind  to  read  a  letter  from 
an  old  friend,  behold  here  it  is.  When  I  was  at  school, 
having  left  my  parents  in  India,  a  good-natured  captain 
or  colonel  would  come  sometimes  and  see  us  Indian  boys, 
and  talk  to  us  about  papa  and  mamma,  and  give  us  coins 
of  the  realm,  and  write  to  our  parents,  and  say,  "  I  drove 
over  yesterday  and  saw  Tommy  at  Dr.  Birch's.  I  took 
him  to  the  George,  and  gave  him  a  dinner.  His  appetite 
is  fine.  He  states  that  he  is  reading  Cornelius  Nepos, 
with  which  he  is  much  interested.  His  masters  report," 
&c.  And  though  Dr.  Birch  wrote  by  the  same  mail  a 
longer,  fuller,  and  official  statement,  I  have  no  doubt  the 
distant  parents  preferred  the  friend's  letter,  with  its  art- 
less, possibly  ungrammatical,  account  of  their  little  darling. 
I  have  seen  the  young  heir  of  Britain.  These  eyes 
have  beheld  him  and  his  bride,  —  on  Saturday  in  Pall 
Mall  (when  they  stopped  for  a  while  before  the  house  of 


ON  ALEXANDRINES.  355 

Smith,  Elder,  and  Co.,  and  all  within  admired  a  lovely 
cloak  of  purple  velvet  and  sable  worn  by  a  lady  of  whose 
appearance  the  photographers  will  enable  you  to  judge), 
and  on  Tuesday,  in  the  nave  of  St.  George's  Chapel  at 
Windsor,  when  the  young  Princess  Alexandra  of  Denmark 
passed  by  with  her  blooming  procession  of  bridesmaids  ; 
and  half  an  hour  later,  when  the  Princess  of  Wales  came 
forth  from  the  chapel,  her  husband  by  her  side  robed  in 
the  purple  mantle  of  the  famous  Order  which  his  fore- 
father established  here  five  hundred  years  ago.  We  were 
to  see  her  yet  once  again,  when  her  open  carriage  passed 
out  of  the  Castle  gate  to  the  station  of  the  near  railway 
which  was  to  convey  her  to  Southampton. 

Since  womankind  existed,  has  any  woman  ever  had 
such  a  greeting  ?  At  ten  hours'  distance,  there  is  a  city 
far  more  magnificent  than  ours.  With  every  respect  for 
Kensington  turnpike,  I  own  that  the  Arc  de  1'Etoile  at 
Paris  is  a  much  finer  entrance  to  an  imperial  capital.  In 
our  black,  orderless,  zigzag  streets,  we  can  show  nothing 
to  compare  with  the  magnificent  array  of  the  Rue  de  Riv- 
oli,  that  enormous  regiment  of  stone  stretching  for  five 
miles  and  presenting  arms  before  the  Tuileries.  Think 
of  the  late  Fleet  Prison  and  Waithman's  Obelisk,  and  of 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  the  Luxor  Stone  !  "  The 
finest  site  in  Europe,"  as  Trafalgar  Square  has  been  called 
by  some  obstinate  British  optimist,  is  disfigured  by  tro- 
phies, fountains,  columns,  and  statues  so  puerile,  disorderly, 
and  hideous,  that  a  lover  of  the  arts  must  hang  the  head 
of  shame  as  he  passes  to  see  our  dear  old  queen  city  ar- 
raying herself  so  absurdly ;  but  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
we  can  show  one  or  two  of  the  greatest  sights  in  the 
world.  I  doubt  if  any  Roman  festival  was  as  vast  or 
striking  as  the  Derby  day,  or  if  any  Imperial  triumph 


356  ON  ALEXANDRINES. 

could  show  such  a  prodigious  muster  of  faithful  people  as 
our  young  Princess  saw  on  Saturday,  when  the  nation 
turned  out  to  greet  her.  The  calculators  are  squabbling 
about  the  numbers  of  hundreds  of  thousands,  of  millions, 
who  came  forth  to  see  her  and  bid  her  welcome.  Imagine 

O 

beacons  flaming,  rockets  blazing,  yards  manned,  ships  and 
forts  saluting  with  their  thunder,  every  steamer  and  ves- 
sel, every  town  and  village  from  Ramsgate  to  Gravesend, 
swarming  with  happy  gratulation  ;  young  girls  with  flow- 
ers, scattering  roses  before  her ;  staid  citizens  and  alder- 
men pushing  and  squeezing  and  panting  to  make  the 
speech,  and  bow  the  knee,  and  bid  her  welcome  !  Who 
is  this  who  is  honored  with  such  a  prodigious  triumph, 
and  received  with  a  welcome  so  astonishing  ?  A  year 
ago  we  had  never  heard  of  her.  I  think  about  her  pedi- 
gree and  family  not  a  few  of  us  are  in  the  dark  still,  and 
I  own,  for  my  part,  to  be  much  puzzled  by  the  allusions 
of  newspaper  genealogists  and  bards  and  skalds  to  "  Vi- 
kings," Berserkers,  and  so  forth.  But  it  would  be  inter- 
esting to  know  how  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
photographs  of  the  fair  bright  face  have  by  this  time  made 
it  beloved  and  familiar  in  British  homes.  Think  of  all 
the  quiet  country  nooks  from  Land's  End  to  Caithness, 
where  kind  eyes  have  glanced  at  it.  The  farmer  brings 
it  home  from  market ;  the  curate  from  his  visit  to  the 
Cathedral  town  ;  the  rustic  folk  peer  at  it  in  the  little  vil- 
lage shop  window  ;  the  squire's  children  gaze  on  it  round 
the  drawing-room  table :  every  eye  that  beholds  it  looks 
tenderly  on  its  bright  beauty  and  sweet,  artless  grace,  and 
young  and  old  pray  God  bless  her.  We  have  an  elderly 
friend  (a  certain  Goody  Twoshoes,  who  has  been  men- 
tioned before  in  the  pages  of  this  Magazine),  and  who  in- 
habits, with  many  other  old  ladies,  the  Union-house  of  the 


ON  ALEXANDRINES.  357 

parish  of  St.  Lazarus  in  Soho.  One  of  your  cousins  from 
this  house  went  to  see  her,  and  found  Goody  and  her  com- 
panion crones  all  in  a  flutter  of  excitement  about  the  mar- 
riage. The  whitewashed  walls  of  their  bleak  dormitory 
were  ornamented  with  prints  out  of  the  illustrated  jour- 
nals, and  hung  with  festoons  and  true-lover's  knots  of 
tape  and  colored  paper ;  and  the  old  bodies  had  had  a 
good  dinner,  and  the  old  tongues  were  chirping  and  clack- 
ing away,  all  eager,  interested,  sympathizing ;  and  one 
very  elderly  and  rheumatic  Goody,  who  is  obliged  to  keep 
her  bed  (and  has,  I  trust,  an  exaggerated  idea  of  the  cares 
attending  on  royalty),  said,  "  Pore  thing,  pore  thing  !  I 
pity  her."  Yes,  even  in  that  dim  place  there  was  a  little 
brightness  and  a  quavering  huzza,  a  contribution  of  a 
mite  subscribed  by  those  dozen  poor  pld  widows  to  the 
treasure  of  loyalty  with  which  the  nation  endows  the 
Prince's  bride. 

Three  hundred  years  ago,  when  our  dread  Sovereign 
Lady  Elizabeth  came  to  take  possession  of  her  realm  and 
capital  city,  Holingshed,  if  you  please  (whose  pleasing 
history  of  course  you  carry  about  with  you),  relates  in 
his  fourth  volume  folio,  that,  —  "  At  hir  entring  the  citie, 
she  was  of  the  people  received  maruellous  intierlie,  as  ap- 
peared by  the  assemblies,  praiers,  welcommings,  cries,  and 
all  other  signes  which  argued  a  woonderfull  earnest  loue  " : 
and  at  various  halting-places  on  the  royal  progress  chil- 
dren habited  like  angels  appeared  out  of  allegoric  edifices 
and  spoke  verses  to  her  :  — 

Welcome,  0  Queen,  as  much  as  heart  can  think, 

Welcome  again,  as  much  as  tongue  can  tell, 
Welcome  to  jo}rous  tongues  and  hearts  that  will  not  shrink. 

God  thee  preserve,  we  pray,  and  wish  thee  ever  well ! 

Our  new  Princess,  you  may  be  sure,  has  also  had  her 


358  ON  ALEXANDRINES. 

Alexandrines,  and  many  minstrels  have  gone  before  her 
singing  her  praises.  Mr.  Tupper,  who  begins  in  very 
great  force  and  strength,  and  who  proposes  to  give  her  no 
less  than  eight  hundred  thousand  welcomes  in  the  first 
twenty  lines  of  his  ode,  is  not  satisfied  with  this  most  lib- 
eral amount  of  acclamation,  but  proposes  at  the  end  of  his 
poem  a  still  more  magnificent  subscription.  Thus  we  be- 
gin, "  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes,  a  hundred  thousand 
welcomes."  (In  my  copy  the  figures  are  in  the  well- 
known  Arabic  numerals,  but  let  us  have  the  numbers  lit- 
erally accurate)  :  — 

A  hundred  thousand  welcomes ! 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes ! 

And  a  hundred  thousand  more! 
0  happy  heart  of  England, 
Shout  aloud  and  sing,  land, 
As  no  land  sang  before  ; 
And  let  the  pasans  soar 
And  ring  from  shore  to  shore, 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 
And  a  hundred  thousand  more; 

And  let  the  cannons  roar, 

The  joy-stunned  city  o'er. 
And  let  the  steeples  chime  it 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 
And  a  hundred  thousand  more; 

And  let  the  people  rhyme  it 

From  neighbor's  door  to  door, 

From  every  man's  heart's  core, 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes 
And  a  hundred  thousand  more. 

This  contribution,  in  twenty  not  long  lines,  of  900,000 
(say  nine  hundred  thousand)  welcomes  is  handsome  in- 
deed ;  and  shows  that  when  our  bard  is  inclined  to  be  lib- 
eral, he  does  not  look  to  the  cost.  But  what  is  a  sum  of 
900,000  to  his  further  proposal  ?  — 


ON  ALEXANDRINES.  359 

0  let  all  these  declare  it, 
Let  miles  of  shouting  swear  it, 

In  all  the  years  of  yore, 

Unparalleled  before ! 
And  thou,  most  welcome  Wand'rer 

Across  the  Northern  Water, 
Our  England's  ALEXANDRA, 

Our  dear  adopted  daughter,  — 

Lay  to  thine  heart,  conned  o'er  and  o'er, 

In  future  years  remembered  well, 

The  magic  fervor  of  this  spell 
That  shakes  the  land  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  makes  all  hearts  and  eyes  brim  o'er; 

Our  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 

Our  fifty  million  welcomes, 
And  a  hundred  million  more ! 

Here  we  have,  besides  the  most  liberal  previous  sub- 
scription, a  further  call  on  the  public  for  no  less  than  one 
hundred  and  fifty  million  one  hundred  thousand  welcomes 
for  her  Royal  Highness.  How  much  is  this  per  head  for 
all  of  us  in  the  three  kingdoms  ?  Not  above  five  wel- 
comes apiece,  and  I  am  sure  many  of  us  have  given  more 
than  five  hurrahs  to  the  fair  young  Princess. 

Each  man  sings  according  to  his  voice,  and  gives  in 
proportion  to  his  means.  The  guns  at  Sheerness,  "  from 
their  adamantine  lips  "  (which  had  spoken  in  quarrelsome 
old  times  a  very  different  language),  roared  a  hundred 
thundering  welcomes  to  the  fair  Dane.  The  maidens  of 
England  strewed  roses  before  her  feet  at  Gravesend  when 
she  landed.  Mr.  Tupper,  with  the  million  and  odd  wel- 
comes, may  be  compared  to  the  thundering  fleet ;  Mr. 
Chorley's  song  to  the  flowerets  scattered  on  her  Royal 
Highness's  happy  and  carpeted  path :  — 

Blessings  on  that  fair  face ! 

Safe  on  the  shore 
Of  her  home-dwelling  place, 

Stranger  no  more. 


360  ON  ALEXANDRINES. 

Love,  from  her  household  shrine 

Keep  sorrow  far! 
May,  for  her  hawthorn  twine, 
June,  bring  sweet  eglantine, 
Autumn,  the  golden  vine, 

Dear  Northern  Star! 

Hawthorn  for  May,  eglantine  for  June,  and  in  autumn 
a  little  tass  of  the  golden  vine  for  our  Northern  Star.  I 
am  sure  no  one  will  grudge  the  Princess  these  simple  en- 
joyments, and  of  the  produce  of  the  last-named  pleasing 
plant,  I  wonder  how  many  bumpers  were  drunk  to  her 
health  on  the  happy  day  of  her  bridal  ?  As  for  the  Lau- 
reate's verses,  I  would  respectfully  liken  his  Highness  to 
a  giant  showing  a  beacon-torch  on  "  a  windy  headland." 
His  flaring  torch  is  a  pine-tree,  to  be  sure,  which  nobody 
can  wield  but  himself.  He  waves  it :  and  four  times  in 
the  midnight  he  shouts  mightily,  "  Alexandra !  "  and  the 
Pontic  pine  is  whirled  into  the  ocean  and  Enceladus  goes 
home. 

Whose  muse,  whose  cornemuse,  sounds  with  such 
plaintive  sweetness  from  Arthur's  Seat,  while  Edinburgh 
and  Musselburgh  lie  rapt  in  delight,  and  the  mermaids 
come  flapping  up  to  Leith  shore  to  hear  the  exquisite 
music  ?  Sweeter  piper  Edina  knows  not  than  Aytoun, 
the  Bard  of  the  Cavaliers,  who  has  given  in  his  frank  ad- 
hesion to  the  reigning  dynasty.  When  a  most  beautiful, 
celebrated,  and  unfortunate  princess,  whose  memory  the 
Professor  loves,  —  when  Mary,  wife  of  Francis  the  Sec- 
ond, King  of  France,  and  by  her  own  right  proclaimed 
Queen  of  Scotland  and  England  (poor  soul !),  entered 
Paris  with  her  young  bridegroom,  good  Peter  Ronsard 
wrote  of  her,  — 

Toi  qui  as  veu  1'excellence  de  celle 
Qui  rend  le  ciel  de  1'Escosse  envieux, 


ON  ALEXANDRINES.  361 

Dy  hardiment,  contentez  vous  mes  yeux, 
Vous  ne  verrez  jarnais  chose  plus  belle.* 

Vous  ne  verrez  jamais  chose  plus  belle.  Here  is  an 
Alexandrine  written  three  hundred  years  ago,  as  simple 
as  bon  jour.  Professor  Aytoun  is  more  ornate.  After 
elegantly  complimenting  the  spring,  and  a  description  of 
her  Royal  Highness's  well-known  ancestors,  "the  Ber- 
serkers," he  bursts  forth,  — 

The  Rose  of  Denmark  comes,  the  Royal  Bride ! 

0  loveliest  Rose !  our  paragon  and  pride,  — 

Choice  of  the  Prince  whom  England  holds  so  dear,  — 

What  homage  shall  we  pay 

To  one  who  has  no  peer  ? 

What  can  the  bard  or  wildered  minstrel  say 

More  than  the  peasant,  who,  on  bended  knee, 

Breathes  from  his  heart  an  earnest  prayer  for  thee  ? 

Words  are  not  fair,  if  that  they  would  express 

Is  fairer  still ;  so  lovers  in  dismay 

Stand  all  abashed  before  that  loveliness 

They  worship  most,  but  find  no  words  to  pray. 

Too  sweet  for  incense !  (bravo!)  Take  our  loves  instead, — 

Most  freely,  truly,  and  devoutly  given ; 

Our  prayer  for  blessings  on  that  gentle  head, 

For  earthly  happiness  and  rest  in  heaven ! 

May  never  sorrow  dim  those  dove-like  eyes, 

But  peace  as  pure  as  reigned  in  Paradise, 

Calm  and  untainted  on  creation's  eve, 

Attend  thee  still !     May  holy  angels,  &c. 

This  is  all  very  well,  my  dear  country  cousins.  But 
will  you  say  "  Amen  "  to  this  prayer  ?  I  won't.  As- 
suredly our  fair  Princess  will  shed  many  tears  out  of  the 
u  dovelike  eyes,"  or  the  heart  will  be  little  worth.  Is  she 
to  know  no  parting,  no  care,  no  anxious  longing,  no  ten- 
der watches  by  the  sick,  to  deplore  no  friends  and  kin- 
dred, and  feel  no  grief?  Heaven  forbid  !  When  a  bard 
or  wildered  minstrel  writes  so,  best  accept  his  own  con- 

*  Quoted  in  "Mignet's  Life  of  Mary." 
16 


362  ON  ALEXANDRINES. 

fession,  that  he  is  losing  his  head.  On  the  day  of  her 
entrance  into  London  who  looked  more  bright  and  happy 
than  the  Princess  ?  On  the  day  of  the  marriage,  the 
fair  face  wore  its  marks  of  care  already,  and  looked  out 
quite  grave,  and  frightened  almost,  under  the  wreaths 
and  lace  and  orange-flowers.  Would  you  have  had  her 
feel  no  tremor  ?  A  maiden  on  the  bridegroom's  thresh- 
old, a  Princess  led  up  to  the  steps  of  a  throne  ?  I  think 
her  pallor  and  doubt  became  her  as  well  as  her  smiles. 
That,  I  can  tell  you,  was  our  vote  who  sat  in  X  compart- 
ment, let  us  say,  in  the  nave  of  St.  George's  Chapel  at 
Windsor,  and  saw  a  part  of  one  of  the  brightest  ceremo- 
nies ever  performed  there. 

My  dear  cousin  Mary,  you  have  an  account  of  the 
dresses ;  and  I  promise  you  there  were  princesses  besides 
the  bride  whom  it  did  the  eyes  good  to  behold.  Around 
the  bride  sailed  a  bevy  of  young  creatures  so  fair,  white, 
and  graceful  that  I  thought  of  those  fairy-tale  beauties  who 
are  sometimes  princesses,  and  sometimes  white  swans. 
The  Royal  Princesses  and  the  Royal  Knights  of  the 
Garter  swept  by  in  prodigious  robes  and  trains  of  purple 
velvet,  thirty  shillings  a  yard,  my  dear,  not  of  course  in- 
cluding the  lining,  which,  I  have  no  doubt,  was  of  the 
richest  satin,  or  that  costly  "  miniver  "  which  we  used  to 
read  about  in  poor  Jerrold's  writings.  The  young  princes 
were  habited  in  kilts ;  and  by  the  side  of  the  Princess 
Royal  trotted  such  a  little  wee  solemn  Highlander !  He 
is  the  young  heir  and  chief  of  the  famous  clan  of  Bran- 
denburg. His  eyrie  is  amongst  the  Eagles,  and  I  pray  no 
harm  may  befall  the  dear  little  chieftain. 

The  heralds  in  their  tabards  were  marvellous  to  behold, 
and  a  nod  from  Rouge  Croix  gave  me  the  keenest  gratifi- 
cation. I  tried  to  catch  Garter's  eye,  but  either  I  could  n't 


ON  ALEXANDRINES.  363 

or  he  would  n't.  In  his  robes,  he  is  like  one  of  the  Three 
Kings  in  old  missal  illuminations.  Gold  Stick  in  waiting 
is  even  more  splendid.  With  his  gold  rod  and  robes  and 
trappings  of  many  colors,  he  looks  like  a  royal  enchanter, 
and  as  if  he  had  raised  up  all  this  scene  of  glamour  by  a 
wave  of  his  glittering  wand.  The  silver  trumpeters  wear 
such  quaint  caps,  as  those  I  have  humbly  tried  to  depict 
on  the  playful  heads  of  children.  Behind  the  trumpeters 
came  a  drum-bearer,  on  whose  back  a  gold-laced  drum- 
mer drubbed  his  march. 

When  the  silver  clarions  had  blown,  and,  under  a  clear 
chorus  of  white-robed  children  chanting  round  the  organ, 
the  noble  procession  passed  into  the  chapel,  and  was  hid- 
den from  our  sight  for  a  while,  there  was  silence,  or  from 
the  inner  chapel  ever  so  faint  a  hum.  Then  hymns  arose, 
and  in  the  lull  we  knew  that  prayers  were  being  said,  and 
the  sacred  rite  performed  which  joined  Albert  Edward  to 
Alexandra  his  wife.  I  am  sure  hearty  prayers  were 
offered  outside  the  gate  as  well  as  within  for  that  princely 
young  pair,  and  for  their  Mother  and  Queen.  The  peace, 
the  freedom,  the  happiness,  the  order  which  her  rule 
guarantees,  are  part  of  my  birthright  as  an  Englishman, 
and  I  bless  God  for  my  share.  Where  else  shall  I  find 
such  liberty  of  action,  thought,  speech,  or  laws  which  pro- 
tect me  so  well  ?  Her  part  of  her  compact  with  her  peo- 
ple, what  sovereign  ever  better  performed  ?  If  ours  sits 
apart  from  the  festivities  of  the  day,  it  is  because  she 
suffers  from  a  grief  so  recent  that  the  loyal  heart  cannot 
master  it  as  yet,  and  remains  treu  und  fest  to  a  beloved 
memory.  A  part  of  the  music  which  celebrates  the  day's 
service  was  composed  by  the  husband  who  is  gone  to  the 
place  where  the  just  and  pure  of  life  meet  the  reward 
promised  by  the  Father  of  all  of  us  to  good  and  faithful 


364  ON  ALEXANDRINES. 

servants  who  have  well  done  here  below.  As  this  one 
gives  in  his  account,  surely  we  may  remember  how  the 
Prince  was  the  friend  of  all  peaceful  arts  and  learning ; 
how  he  was  true  and  fast  always  to  duty,  home,  honor ; 
how,  through  a  life  of  complicated  trials,  he  was  sagacious, 
righteous,  active,  and  self-denying.  And  as  we  trace  in 
the  young  faces  of  his  many  children  the  father's  features 
and  likeness,  what  Englishman  will  not  pray  that  they 
may  have  inherited  also  some  of  the  great  qualities  which 
won  for  the  Prince  Consort  the  love  and  respect  of  our 
country  ? 

The  papers  tell  us  how,  on  the  night  of  the  marriage 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  all  over  England  and  Scotland 
illuminations  were  made,  the  poor  and  children  were 
feasted,  and  in  village  and  city  thousands  of  kindly 
schemes  were  devised  to  mark  the  national  happiness 
and  sympathy.  "The  bonfire  on  Coptpoint  at  Folke- 
stone was  seen  in  France,"  the  Telegraph  says,  "  more 
clearly  than  even  the  French  marine  lights  could  be  seen 
at  Folkestone."  Long  may  the  fire  continue  to  burn ! 
There  are  European  coasts  (and  inland  places)  where 
the  liberty  light  has  been  extinguished,  or  is  so  low  that 
you  can't  see  to  read  by  it,  —  there  are  great  Atlantic 
shores  where  it  flickers  and  smokes  very  gloomily.  Let 
us  be  thankful  to  the  honest  guardians  of  ours,  and  for 
the  kind  sky  under  which  it  burns  bright  and  steady. 


THE   NOTCH   ON   THE   AXE. 

A  STORY  A  LA  MODE. 

PAET    I. 

VERY  one  remembers  in  the  Fourth  Book  of 
the  immortal  poem  of  your  Blind  Bard  (to 
whose  sightless  orbs  no  doubt  Glorious  Shapes 
were  apparent,  and  Visions  Celestial),  how 

Adam    discourses   to    Eve   of  the   Bright  Visitors  who 

hovered  round  their  Eden, — 

"  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth, 
Unseen  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

" '  How  often/  says  Father  Adam,  l  from  the  steep  of 
echoing  hill  or  thicket,  have  we  heard  celestial  voices  to 
the  midnight  air,  sole,  or  responsive  to  each  other's  notes, 
singing ! '  After  the  Act  of  Disobedience,  when  the 
erring  pair  from  Eden  took  their  solitary  way,  and  went 
forth  to  toil  and  trouble  on  common  earth,  —  though  the 
Glorious  Ones  no  longer  were  visible,  you  cannot  say 
they  were  gone  ?  It  was  not  that  the  Bright  Ones  were 
absent,  but  that  the  dim  eyes  of  rebel  man  no  longer  could 
see  them.  In  your  chamber  hangs  a  picture  of  one  whom 
you  never  knew,  but  whom  you  have  long  held  in  tender- 
est  regard,  and  who  was  painted  for  you  by  a  friend  of 
mine,  the  Knight  of  Plympton.  She  communes  with  you. 
She  smiles  on  you.  When  your  spirits  are  low,  her 


366  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

bright  eyes  shine  on  you  and  cheer  you.  Her  innocent 
sweet  smile  is  a  caress  to  you.  She  never  fails  to  soothe 
you  with  her  speechless  prattle.  You  love  her.  She  is 
alive  with  you.  As  you  extinguish  your  candle  and  turn 
to  sleep,  though  your  eyes  see  her  not,  is  she  not  there 
still  smiling  ?  As  you  lie  in  the  night  awake,  and  think- 
ing of  your  duties,  and  the  morrow's  inevitable  toil  op- 
pressing the  busy,  weary,  wakeful  brain  as  with  a  remorse, 
the  crackling  fire  flashes  up  for  a  moment  in  the  grate, 
and  she  is  there,  your  little  Beauteous  Maiden,  smiling 
with  her  sweet  eyes !  When  moon  is  down,  when  fire  is 
out,  when  curtains  are  drawn,  when  lids  are  closed,  is  she 
not  there,  the  little  Beautiful  One,  though  invisible,  pres- 
ent and  smiling  still?  Friend,  the  Unseen  Ones  are 
round  about  us.  Does  it  not  seem  as  if  the  time  were 
drawing  near  when  it  shall  be  given  to  men  to  behold 
them?" 

The  print  of  which  my  friend  spoke,  and  which,  indeed, 
hangs  in  my  room,  though  he  has  never  been  there,  is 
that  charming  little  winter  piece  of  Sir  Joshua,  represent- 
ing the  little  Lady  Caroline  Montagu,  afterwards  Duch- 
ess of  Buccleuch.  She  is  represented  as  standing  in  the 
midst  of  a  winter  landscape,  wrapped  in  muff  and  cloak : 
and  she  looks  out  of  her  picture  with  a  smile  so  exquisite 
that  a  Herod  could  not  see  her  without  being  charmed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  PINTO,"  I  said  to  the  person 
with  whom  I  was  conversing.  (I  wonder,  by  the  way, 
that  I  was  not  surprised  at  his  knowing  how  fond  I  am  of 
this  print.)  "  You  spoke  of  the  Knight  of  Plympton. 
Sir  Joshua  died,  1792  :  and  you  say  he  was  your  dear 
friend  ?  " 

As  I  spoke  I  chanced  to  look  at  Mr.  Pinto  ;  and  then 
it  suddenly  struck  me  :  Gracious  powers  !  Perhaps  you 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  367 

are  a  hundred  years  old,  now  I  think  of  it.  You  look 
more  than  a  hundred.  Yes,  you  may  be  a  thousand  years 
old  for  what  I  know.  Your  teeth  are  false.  One  eye  is 
evidently  false.  Can  I  say  that  the  other  is  not  ?  If  a 
man's  age  may  be  calculated  by  the  rings  round  his  eyes, 
this  man  may  be  as  old  as  Methuselah.  He  has  no 
beard.  He  wears  a  large  curly  glossy  brown  wig,  and 
his  eyebrows  are  painted  a  deep  olive-green.  It  was  odd 
to  hear  this  man,  this  walking  mummy,  talking  sentiment, 
in  these  queer  old  chambers  in  Shepherd's  Inn. 

Pinto  passed  a  yellow  bandanna  handkerchief  over  his 
awful  white  teeth,  and  kept  his  glass  eye  steadily  fixed 
on  me.  "Sir  Joshua's  friend ?"  said  he  (you  perceive, 
eluding  my  direct  question).  "  Is  not  every  on-e  that 
knows  his  pictures  Reynolds's  friend  ?  Suppose  I  tell 
you  that  I  have  been  in  his  painting  room  scores  of  times, 
and  that  his  sister  The  has  made  me  tea,  and  his  sister 
Toffy  has  made  coffee  for  me  ?  You  will  only  say  I  am 
an  old  ombog."  (Mr.  Pinto,  I  remarked,  spoke  all  lan- 
guages with  an  accent  equally  foreign.)  "  Suppose  I  tell 
you  that  I  knew  Mr.  Sam  Johnson,  and  did  not  like  him  ? 
that  I  was  at  that  very  ball  at  Madame  Cornelis's,  which 
you  have  mentioned  in  one  of  your  little  —  what  do  you 
call  them  ?  —  bah  !  my  memory  begins  to  fail  me,  —  in 
one  of  your  little  Whirligig  Papers  ?  Suppose  I  tell  you 
that  Sir  Joshua  has  been  here,  in  this  very  room  ?  " 

"  Have  you,  then,  had  these  apartments  for  —  more  — 
than  —  seventy  years  ?  "  I  asked. 

"They  look  as  if  they  had  not  been  swept  for  that 
time,  —  don't  they  ?  Hey  ?  I  did  not  say  that  I  had 
them  for  seventy  years,  but  that  Sir  Joshua  has  visited 
me  here." 

"  When  ? "  I  asked,  eying  the  man  sternly,  for  I  be- 
gan to  think  he  was  an  impostor. 


368  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

He  answered  me  with  a  glance  still  more  stern  :  "  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  was  here  this  very  morning,  with  Angel- 
ica Kaufmann,  and  Mr.  Oliver  Goldschmidt.  He  is  still 
very  much  attached  to  Angelica,  who  still  does  not  care 
for  him.  Because  he  is  dead  (and  I  was  in  the  fourth 
mourning  coach  at  his  funeral)  is  that  any  reason  why  he 
should  not  come  back  to  earth  again  ?  My  good  sir,  you 
are  laughing  at  me.  He  has  sat  many  a  time  on  that 
very  chair  which  you  are  occupying.  There  are  several 
spirits  in  the  room  now,  whom  you  cannot  see.  Excuse 
me."  Here  he  turned  round  as  if  he  was  addressing 
somebody,  and  began  rapidly  speaking  a  language  un- 
known to  me.  "  It  is  Arabic,"  he  said  ;  "  a  bad  patois,  I 
own.  I  learned  it  in  Barbary,  when  I  was  a  prisoner 
amongst  the  Moors.  In  anno  1609,  bin  ick  aldus  ghek- 
ledt  gheghaen.  Ha !  you  doubt  me :  look  at  me  well. 
At  least  I  am  like  —  " 

Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  remember  a  paper  of 
which  the  figure  of  a  man  carrying  a  barrel  formed  the 
initial  letter,  and  which  I  copied  from  an  old  spoon  now 
in  my  possession.  As  I  looked  at  Mr.  Pinto,  I  do  declare 
he  looked  so  like  the  figure  on  that  old  piece  of  plate  that 
I  started  and  felt  very  uneasy.  "  Ha  !  "  said  he,  laugh- 
ing through  his  false  teeth  (I  declare  they  were  false,  — 
I  could  see  utterly  toothless  gums  working  up  and  down 
behind  the  pink  coral),  "  you  see  I  wore  a  beard  den  ;  I 
am  shafed  now ;  perhaps  you  tink  I  am  a  spoon.  Ha, 
ha  !  "  And  as  he  laughed  he  gave  a  cough  which  I 
thought  would  have  coughed  his  teeth  out,  his  glass  eye 
out,  his  wig  off,  his  very  head  off;  but  he  stopped  this 
convulsion  by  stumping  across  the  room  and  seizing  a  lit- 
tle bottle  of  bright  pink  medicine,  which,  being  opened, 
spread  a  singular  acrid  aromatic  odor  through  the  apart- 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE   AXE.  369 

ment ;  and  I  thought  I  saw  —  but  of  this  I  cannot  take 
an  affirmation  —  a  light  green  and  violet  flame  flickering 
round  the  neck  of  the  phial  as  he  opened  it.  By  the 
way,  from  the  peculiar  stumping  noise  which  he  made  in 
crossing  the  bare-boarded  apartment,  I  knew  at  once  that 
my  strange  entertainer  had  a  wooden  leg.  Over  the  dust 
which  lay  quite  thick  on  the  boards,  you  could  see  the 
mark  of  one  foot  very  neat  and  pretty,  and  then  a  round 
O,  which  was  naturally  the  impression  made  by  the  wood- 
en stump.  I  own  I  had  a  queer  thrill  as  I  saw  that  mark, 
and  felt  a  secret  comfort  that  it  was  not  cloven. 

In  this  desolate  apartment  in  which  Mr.  Pinto  had  in- 
vited me  to  see  him,  there  were  three  chairs,  one  bottom- 
less, a  little  table  on  which  you  might  put  a  breakfast- 
tray,  and  not  a  single  other  article  of  furniture.  In  the 
next  room,  the  door  of  which  was  open,  I  could  see  a 
magnificent  gilt  dressing-case,  with  some  splendid  dia- 
mond and  ruby  shirt-studs  lying  by  it,  and  a  chest  of 
drawers,  and  a  cupboard  apparently  full  of  clothes. 

Remembering  him  in  Baden  Baden  in  great  magnifi- 
cence, I  wondered  at  his  present  denuded  state.  "  You 
have  a  house  elsewhere,  Mr.  Pinto  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Many,"  says  he.  "  I  have  apartments  in  many  cities. 
I  lock  dem  up,  and  do  not  cary  mosh  logish." 

I  then  remembered  that  his  apartment  at  Baden,  where 
I  first  met  him,  was  bare,  and  had  no  bed  in  it. 

"  There  is,  then,  a  sleeping-room  beyond  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  sleeping-room."  (He  pronounces  it  dis.) 
Can  this,  by  the  way,  give  any  clew  to  the  nationality  of 
this  singular  man  ? 

"  If  you  sleep  on  these  two  old  chairs  you  have  a  rickety 
couch ;  if  on  the  floor,  a  dusty  one." 

"  Suppose  I  sleep  up  dere  ?  "  said  this  strange  man,  and 
16*  x 


370  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

he  actually  pointed  up  to  the  ceiling.  I  thought  him  mad, 
or  what  he  himself  called  an  ombog.  "  I  know.  You  do 
not  believe  me ;  for  why  should  I  deceive  you  ?  I  came 
but  to  propose  a  matter  of  business  to  you.  I  told  you  I 
could  give  you  the  clew  to  the  mystery  of  the  Two  Chil- 
dren in  Black,  whom  we  met  at  Baden,  and  you  came  to 
see  me.  If  I  told  you,  you^would  not  believe  me.  What 
for  try  and  convinz  you  ?  Ha  hey  ?  "  And  he  shook 
his  hand  once,  twice,  thrice,  at  me,  and  glared  at  me  out 
of  his  eye  in  a  peculiar  way. 

Of  what  happened  now  I  protest  I  cannot  give  an  ac- 
curate account.  It  seemed  to  me  that  there  shot  a  flame 
from  his  eye  into  my  brain,  whilst  behind  his  glass  eye 
there  was  a  green  illumination  as  if  a  candle  had  been  lit 
in  it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  from  his  long  fingers  two 
quivering  flames  issued,  sputtering,  as  it  were,  which 
penetrated  me,  and  forced  me  back  into  one  of  the  chairs, 
—  the  broken  one,  —  out  of  which  I  had  much  difficulty 
in  scrambling,  when  the  strange  glamour  was  ended.  It 
seemed  to  me  that,  when  I  was  so  fixed,  so  transfixed  in 
the  broken  chair,  the  man  floated  up  to.  the  ceiling, 
crossed  his  legs,  folded  his  arms  as  if  he  was  lying  on  a 
sofa,  and  grinned  down  at  me.  When  I  came  to  myself  he 
was  down  from  the  ceiling,  and,  taking  me  out  of  the 
broken  cane-bottomed  chair,  kindly  enough,  — "  Bah  !  " 
said  he,  "  it  is  the  smell  of  my  medicine.  It  often  gives  the 
vertigo.  I  thought  you  would  have  had  a  little  fit.  Come 
into  the  open  air."  And  we  went  down  the  steps,  and 
into  Shepherd's  Inn,  where  the  setting  sun  was  just  shining 
on  the  statue  of  Shepherd ;  the  laundresses  were  trapesing 
about ;  the  porters  were  leaning  against  the  railings ;  and 
the  clerks  were  playing  at  marbles,  to  my  inexpressible 
consolation. 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  371 

"  You  said  you  were  going  to  dine  at  the  Gray's-inn 
Coffee-house,"  he  said.  I  was.  I  often  dine  there.  There 
is  excellent  wine  at  the  Gray's-inn  Coffee-house  ;  but  I 
declare  I  NEVER  SAID  so.  I  was  not  astonished  at  his 
remark ;  no  more  astonished  than  if  I  was  in  a  dream. 
Perhaps  I  was  in  a  dream.  Is  life  a  dream  ?  Are  dreams 
facts  ?  Is  sleeping  being  really  awake  ?  I  don't  know. 
I  tell  you  I  am  puzzled.  I  have  read  "  The  Woman  in 
White,"  uThe  Strange  Story,"  — not  to  mention  that 
story  stranger  than  fiction  in  the  "  Cornhill  Magazine,"  — 
that  story  for  which  THREE  credible  witnesses  are  ready 
to  vouch.  I  have  read  that  Article  in  "  The  Times  " 
about  Mr.  Foster.  I  have  had  messages  from  the  dead ; 
and  not  only  from  the  dead,  but  from  people  who  never 
existed  at  all.  I  own  I  am  in  a  state  of  much  bewilder- 
ment ;  but,  if  you  please,  will  proceed  with  my  simple, 
my  artless  story. 

Well,  then.  We  passed  from  Shepherd's  Inn  into  Hoi- 
born,  and  looked  for  a  while  at  Woodgate's  bric-a-brac 
shop,  which  I  never  can  pass  without  delaying  at  the 
windows,  —  indeed,  if  I  were  going  to  be  hung,  I  would 
beg  the  cart  to  stop,  and  let  me  have  one  look  more  at 
that  delightful  omnium  gatherum.  And  passing  Wood- 
gate's,  we  come  to  Gale's  little  shop,  No.  47,  which  is  also 
a  favorite  haunt  of  mine. 

Mr.  Gale  happened  to  be  at  his  door,  and  as  we  ex- 
changed salutations,  "  Mr.  Pinto,"  I  said,  "  will  you  like 
to  see  a  real  curiosity  in  this  curiosity  shop  ?  Step  into 
Mr.  Gale's  little  back  room." 

In  that  little  back  parlor  there  are  Chinese  gongs  ;  there 
are  old  Saxe  and  Sevres  plates ;  there  is  Fiirstenberg, 
Carl.  Theodor,  Worcester,  Amstel,  Nankin  and  other 
jimcrockery.  And  in  the  corner  what  do  you  think  there 


372  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

is  ?  There  is  an  actual  GUILLOTINE.  If  you  doubt 
me,  go  and  see,  —  Gale,  High  Holborn,  No.  47.  It  is  a 
slim  instrument,  much  slighter  than  those  which  they 
make  now  ;  —  some  nine  feet  high,  narrow,  a  pretty  piece 
of  upholstery  enough.  '  There  is  the  hook  over  which  the 
rope  used  to  play  which  unloosened  the  dreadful  axe 
above ;  and  look !  dropped  into  the  orifice  where  the 
head  used  to  go,  —  there  is  THE  AXE  itself,  all  rusty  with 

A  GREAT  NOTCH  IN  THE  BLADE. 

As  Pinto  looked  at  it,  —  Mr.  Gale  was  not  in  the  room, 
I  recollect,  —  happening  to  have  been  just  called  out  by 
a  customer  who  offered  him  three  pound  fourteen  and 
sixpence  for  a  blue  Shepherd  in  pate  tendre,  —  Mr.  Pinto 
gave  a  little  start,  and  seemed  crispe  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  looked  steadily  towards  one  of  those  great  porcelain 
stools  which  you  see  in  gardens, —  and,  —  it  seemed  to  me, 
—  I  tell  you  I  won't  take  my  affidavit,  —  I  may  have  been 
maddened  by  the  six  glasses  I  took  of  that  pink  elixir,  — 
I  may  have  been  sleep-walking,  perhaps  am  as  I  write 
now,  —  I  may  have  been  under  the  influence  of  that  as- 
tounding MEDIUM  into  whose  hands  I  had  fallen,  — 
but  I  vow  I  heard  Pinto  say,  with  rather  a  ghastly  grin 
at  the  porcelain  stool, 

"Nay,  nefer  shague  your  gory  locks  at  me, 
Dou  canst  not  say  I  did  it." 

(He  pronounced  it,  by  the  way,  I  dit  it,  by  which  I  know 
that  Pinto  was  a  German.) 

I  heard  Pinto  say  those  very  words,  and  sitting  on  the 
porcelain  stool  I  saw,  dimly  at  first,  then  with  an  awful 
distinctness,  —  a  ghost,  —  an  eidolon,  —  a  form,  —  A 
HEADLESS  MAN  seated,  with  his  head  in  his  lap,  which 
wore  an  expression  of  piteous  surprise. 

At  this  minute,  Mr.  Gale  entered  from  the  front  shop 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  373 

to  show  a  customer  some  delf  plates ;  and  he  did  not  see 
—  but  we  did — the  figure  rise  up  from  the  porcelain 
stool,  shake  its  head,  which  it  held  in  its  hand,  and  which 
kept  its  eyes  fixed  sadly  on  us,  and  disappear  behind  the 
guillotine. 

"  Come  to  the  Gray's-inn  Coffee-house,"  Pinto  said, 
"  and  I  will  tell  you  how  the  notch  came  to  the  axe"  And 
we  walked  down  Holborn  at  about  thirty-seven  minutes 
past  six  o'clock. 

If  there  is  anything  in  the  above  statement  which 
astonishes  the  reader,  I  promise  him  that  in  the  next  chap- 
ter of  this  little  story  he  will  be  astonished  still  more. 


PAKT    II. 

U  will  excuse  me,"  I  said  to  my  companion,  "  for 
remarking,  that  when  you  addressed  the  —  the 
individual  sitting  on  the  porcelain  stool,  with  his  head  in 
his  lap,  your  ordinarily  benevolent  features  "  —  (this  I 
confess  was  a  bouncer,  for  between  ourselves  a  more 
sinister  and  ill-looking  rascal  than  Mons.  P.  I  have  sel- 
dom set  eyes  on)  — "  your  ordinarily  handsome  face 
wore  an  expression  that  was  by  no  means  pleasing.  You 
grinned  at  the  individual  just  as  you  did  at  me  when 

you  went  up  to  the  cei ,  pardon  me,  as  I  thought  you 

did,  when  I  fell  down  in  a  fit  in  your  chambers  " ;  and  I 
qualified  my  words  in  a  great  flutter  and  tremble  ;  I  did 
not  care  to  offend  the  man,  —  I  did  not  dare  to  offend 
the  man.  I  thought  once  or  twice  of  jumping  into  a  cab 
and  flying ;  of  taking  refuge  in  Day  and  Martin's  Black- 
ing Warehouse  ;  of  speaking  to  a  policeman,  but  not  one 


374  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

would  come.  I  was  this  man's  slave.  I  followed  him  like 
his  dog.  I  could  not  get  away  from  him.  So,  you  see,  I 
went  on  meanly  conversing  with  him,  and  affecting  a  sim- 
pering confidence.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  little  boy 
at  school,  going  up  fawning  and  smiling  in  this  way  to 
some  great  hulking  bully  of  a  sixth-form  boy.  So  I  said 
in  a  word,  "  Your  ordinarily  handsome  face  wore  a  disa- 
greeable expression,"  &c. 

"  It  is  ordinarily  very  handsome,"  said  he,  with  such  a 
leer  at  a  couple  of  passers-by,  that  one  of  them  cried, 
"  O,  crikey,  here  's  a  precious  guy  ! "  and  a  child,  in  its 
nurse's  arms,  screamed  itself  into  convulsions.  "  0,  oui, 
che  suis  tres-choli  garcon,  bien  peau,  cerdainement"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Pinto  ;  "  but  you  were  right.  That  —  that 
person  was  not  very  well  pleased,  when  he  saw  me. 
There  was  no  love  lost  between  us,  as  you  say ;  and  the 
world  never  knew  a  more  worthless  miscreant.  I  hate 
him,  voyez-vouz  ?  I  hated  him  alife  ;  I  hate  him  dead. 
I  hate  him  man ;  I  hate  him  ghost :  and  he  know  it,  and 
tremble  before  me.  If  I  see  him  twenty  tausend  years 
hence  —  and  why  not  ?  —  I  shall  hate  him  still.  You 
remarked  how  he  was  dressed  ?  " 

"  In  black  satin  breeches  and  striped  stockings ;  a 
white  pique  waistcoat,  a  gray  coat,  with  large  metal  but- 
tons, and  his  hair  in  powder.  He  must  have  worn  a  pig- 
tail —  only  —  " 

"  Only  it  was  cut  off  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! "  Mr.  Pinto  cried, 
yelling  a  laugh,  which,  I  observed,  made  the  policemen 
stare  very  much.  "  Yes.  It  was  cut  off  by  the  same 
blow  which  took  off  the  scoundrel's  head,  —  ho,  ho,  ho  ! " 
And  he  made  a  circle  with  his  hook-nailed  finger  round 
his  own  yellow  neck,  and  grinned  with  a  horrible  triumph. 
"  I  promise  you  that  fellow  was  surprised  when  he  found 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  375 

his  head  in  the  pannier.  Ha,  ha !  Do  you  ever  cease 
to  hate  those  whom  you  hate  ?  "  —  fire  flashed  terrifically 
from  his  glass  eye,  as  he  spoke  —  "  or  to  love  dose  whom 
you  once  loved.  0,  never,  never  !  "  And  here  his  natu- 
ral eye  was  bedewed  with  tears.  "  But  here  we  are  at 
the  Gray's-inn  Coffee-house.  James,  what  is  the  joint  ?  " 

That  very  respectful  and  efficient  waiter  brought  in  the 
bill  of  fare,  and  I,  for  my  part,  chose  boiled  leg  of  pork 
and  pease-pudding,  which  my  acquaintance  said  would  do 
as  well  as  anything  else  ;  though  I  remarked  he  only 
trifled  with  the  pease-pudding,  and  left  all  the  pork  on 
the  plate.  In  fact,  he  scarcely  ate  anything.  But  he 
drank  a  prodigious  quantity  of  wine  ;  and  I  must  say 
that  my  friend  Mr.  Hart's  port  wine  'is  so  good  that  I  my- 
self took  —  well,  I  should  think  I  took  three  glasses. 
Yes,  three,  certainly,  ffe,  —  I  mean  Mr.  P.,  —  the  old 
rogue,  was  insatiable:  for  we  had  to  call  for  a  second 
bottle  in  no  time.  When  that  was  gone,  my  companion 
wanted  another.  A  little  red  mounted  up  to  his  yellow 
cheeks  as  he  drank  the  wine,  and  he  winked  at  it  in  a 
strange  manner.  "  I  remember,"  said  he,  musing,  "  when 
port  wine  was  scarcely  drunk  in  this  country,  —  though 
the  Queen  liked  it,  and  so  did  Harley ;  but  Bolingbroke 
did  n't,  —  he  drank  Florence  and  champagne.  Dr.  Swift 
put  water  to  his  wine.  '  Jonathan,'  I  once  said  to  him  — 
but  bah  !  autres  temps,  autres  mceurs.  Another  magnum, 
James." 

This  was  all  very  well.  "  My  good  sir,"  I  said,  "  it 
may  suit  you  to  order  bottles  of  '20  port,  at  a  guinea  a 
bottle  ;  but  that  kind  of  price  does  not  suit  me.  I  only 
happen  to  have  thirty-four  and  sixpence  in  my  pocket,  of 
which  I  want  a  shilling  for  the  waiter,  and  eighteen-pence 
for  my  cab.  You  rich  foreigners  and  swells  may  spend 


376  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

what  you  like  "  (I  had  him  there :  for  my  friend's  dress 
was  as  shabby  as  an  old-clothes-man's)  ;  "but  a  man  with 
a  family,  Mr.  What-d'you-call'im,  cannot  afford  to  spend 
seven  or  eight  hundred  a  year  on  his  dinner  alone." 

"  Bah  ! "  he  said.  "  Nunkey  pays  for  all,  as  you  say. 
I  will  what  you  call  stant  the  dinner,  if  you  are  so  poor!" 
and  again  he  gave  that  disagreeable  grin,  and  placed  an 
odious  crooked-nailed,  and  by  no  means  clean  finger  to 
his  nose.  But  I  was  not  so  afraid  of  him  now,  for  we 
were  in  a  public  place ;  and  the  two  half-glasses  of  port 
wme  had,  you  see,  given  me  courage. 

"  What  a  pretty  snuff-box  ! "  he  remarked,  as  I  handed 
him  mine,  which  I  am  still  old-fashioned  enough  to  carry. 
It  is  a  pretty  old  gold  box  enough,  but  valuable  to  me 
especially  as  a  relic  of  an  old,  old  relative,  whom  I  can 
just  remember  as  a  child,  when  she  was  very  kind  to  me. 
"  Yes ;  a  pretty  box.  I  can  remember  when  many  ladies, 
—  most  ladies,  carried  a  box,  —  nay,  two  boxes,  —  taba- 
tiere  and  bonbonniere.  What  lady  carries  snuff-box  now, 
hey  ?  Suppose  your  astonishment  if  a  lady  in  an  assem- 
bly were  to  offer  you  a  prise  ?  I  can  remember  a  lady 
with  such  a  box  as  this,  with  a  tour,  as  we  used  to  call 
it  then  ;  with  paniers,  with  a  tortoise-shell  cane,  with  the 
prettiest  little  high-heeled  velvet  shoes  in  the  world !  — 
ah !  that  was  a  time,  that  was  a  time  !  Ah,  Eliza,  Eliza, 
I  have  thee  now  in  my  mind's  eye !  At  Bungay  on  the 
Waveney,  did  I  not  walk  with  thee,  Eliza?  Aha,  did 
I  not  love  thee  ?  Did  I  not  walk  with  thee  then  ?  Do  I 
not  see  thee  still  ?  " 

This  was  passing  strange.  My  ancestress  —  but  there 
is  no  need  to  publish  her  revered  name  —  did  indeed  live 
at  Bungay  Saint  Mary's,  where  she  lies  buried.  She 
used  to  walk  with  a  tortoise-shell  cane.  She  used  to 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  377 

wear  little  black  velvet  shoes,  with  the  prettiest  high 
heels  in  the  world. 

"Did  you  —  did  you — know,  then,  my  great  gr-ndm- 
ther  ?  "  I  said. 

He  pulled  up  his  coat-sleeve,  —  "  Is  that  her  name  ?  " 
he  said. 

«  Eliza " 

There,  I  declare,  was  the  very  name  of  the  kind  old 
creature  written  in  red  on  his  arm. 

"  You  knew  her  old,"  he  said,  divining  my  thoughts 
(with  his  strange  knack)  ;  "  /knew  her  young  and  lovely. 
I  danced  with  her  at  the  Bury  ball.  Did  I  not,  dear, 
dear  Miss ?  " 

As  I  live,  he  here  mentioned  dear  gr-nny's  maiden 
name.  Her  maiden  name  was Her  honored  mar- 
ried name  was 

"  She  married  your  great  gr-ndf-th-r  the  year  Poseidon 
won  the  Newmarket  Plate,"  Mr.  Pinto  dryly  remarked. 

Merciful  powers !  I  remember,  over  the  old  shagreen 
knife  and  spoon  case  on  the  sideboard  in  my  gr-nny's 
parlor,  a  print  by  Stubbs  of  that  very  horse.  My  grand- 
sire,  in  a  red  coat  and  his  fair  hair  flowing  over  his 
shoulders,  was  over  the  mantel-piece,  and  Poseidon  won 
the  Newmarket  Cup  in  the  year  1783  ! 

"  Yes ;  you  are  right.  I  danced  a  minuet  with  her  at 
Bury  that  very  night,  before  I  lost  my  poor  leg.  And  I 
quarrelled  with  your  grandf — ,  ha!" 

As  he  said  "Ha ! "  there  came  three  quiet  little  taps  on 
the  table,  —  it  is  the  middle  table  in  t|ie  Gray's-inn  Cof- 
fee-house, under  the  bust  of  the  late  Duke  of  W-11-ngt-n. 

"  I  fired  in  the  air,"  he  continued ;  "  did  I  not  ?  " 
(Tap,  tap,  tap.)  "  Your  grandfather  hit  me  in  the  leg. 
He  married  three  months  afterwards.  '  Captain  Brown,' 


378  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

I  said,  '  who  could  see  Miss  Sm-th  without  loving  her  ? ' 
She  is  there !  She  is  there  !  "  (Tap,  tap,  tap.)  "  Yes, 
my  first  love  — " 

But  here  there  came  tap,  tap,  which  everybody  knows 
means  "  No." 

"  I  forgot,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  blush  stealing  over  his 

wan  features,  "  she  was  not  my  first  love.  In  Germ 

in  my  own  country  —  there  was  a  young  woman  —  " 

Tap,  tap,  tap.  There  was  here  quite  a  lively  little 
treble  knock ;  and  when  the  old  man  said,  "  But  I  loved 
thee  better  than  all  the  world,  Eliza,"  the  affirmative  sig- 
nal was  briskly  repeated. 

And  this  I  declare  UPON  MY  HONOR.  There  was,  I 
have  said,  a  bottle  of  port  wine  before  us,  —  I  should  say 
a  decanter.  That  decanter  was  LIFTED  UP,  and  out  of  it 
into  our  respective  glasses  two  bumpers  of  wine  were 
poured.  I  appeal  to  Mr.  Hart,  the  landlord,  —  I  appeal 
to  James,  the  respectful  and  intelligent  waiter,  if  this 
statement  is  not  true  ?  And  when  we  had  finished  that 
magnum,  and  I  said,  —  for  I  did  not  now  in  the  least 
doubt  of  her  presence,  —  "  Dear  gr-nny,  may  we  have 
another  magnum  ?  "  the  table  distinctly  rapped  "  No." 

"  Now,  my  good  sir,"  Mr.  Pinto  said,  who  really  began 
to  be  affected  by  the  wine,  "  you  understand  the  interest 

I  have  taken  in  you.  I  loved  Eliza "  (of  course 

I  don't  mention  family  names).  "  I  knew  you  had  that 
box  which  belonged  to  her,  —  I  will  give  you  what  you 
like  for  that  box.  Name  your  price  at  once,  and  I  pay 
you  on  the  spot." 

"  Why,  when  we  came  out,  you  said  you  had  not  six- 
pence in  your  pocket." 

"  Bah  !  give  you  anything  you  like,  —  fifty,  —  a  hun- 
dred, —  a  tausend  pound." 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  379 

"  Come,  come,"  said  I,  "  the  gold  of  the  box  may  be 
worth  nine  guineas,  and  the  fagon  we  will  put  at  six 
more." 

"  One  tausend  guineas  ! "  he  screeched.  "  One  tau- 
sand  and  fifty  pound,  dere ! "  and  he  sank  back  in  his 
chair,  —  no,  by  the  way,  on  his  bench,  for  he  was  sitting 
with  his  back  to  one  of  the  partitions  of  the  boxes,  as  I 
dare  say  James  remembers. 

"  Don't  go  on  in  this  way,"  I  continued,  rather  weak- 
ly, for  I  did  not  know  whether  I  was  in  a  dream.  "  If 
you  offer  me  a  thousand  guineas  for  this  box  I  must  take 
it.  Must  n't  I,  dear  gr-nny  ?  " 

The  table  most  distinctly  said,  "  Yes " ;  and  putting 
out  his  claws  to  seize  the  box,  Mr.  Pinto  plunged  his 
hooked  nose  into  it,  and  eagerly  inhaled  some  of  my  47 
with  a  dash  of  Hardman. 

"  But  stay,  you  old  harpy ! "  I  exclaimed,  being  now 
in  a  sort  of  rage,  and  quite  familiar  with  him.  "  Where 
is  the  money  ?  Where  is  the  check  ?  " 

"  James,  a  piece  of  note-paper  and  a  receipt  stamp !  " 

"  This  is  all  mighty  well,  sir,"  I  said,  but  I  don't  know 
you  ;  I  never  saw  you  before.  I  will  trouble  you  to 
hand  me  that  box  back  again,  or  give  me  a  check  with 
some  known  signature." 

"Whose?     Ha,  HA,  HA!" 

The  room  happened  to  be  very  dark.  Indeed,  all  the 
waiters  were  gone  to  supper,  and  there  were  only  two 
gentlemen  snoring  in  their  respective  boxes.  I  saw  a 
hand  come  quivering  down  from  the  ceiling,  —  a  very 
pretty  hand,  on  which  was  a  ring  with  a  coronet,  with  a 
lion  rampant  gules  for  a  crest.  /  saw  that  hand  take  a 
dip  of  ink  and  write  across  the  paper.  Mr.  Pinto  then, 
taking  a  gray  receipt  stamp  out  of  his  blue  leather  pocket- 


380  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

book,  fastened  it  on  to  the  paper  by  the  usual  process ; 
and  the  hand  then  wrote  across  the  receipt  stamp,  went 
across  the  table  and  shook  hands  with  Pinto,  and  then, 
as  if  waving  him  an  adieu,  vanished  in  the  direction  of 
the  ceiling. 

There  was  the  paper  before  me,  wet  with  the  ink. 
There  was  the  pen  which  THE  HAND  had  used.  Does 
anybody  doubt  me  ?  /  have  that  pen  now.  A  cedar 
stick  of  a  not  uncommon  sort,  and  holding  one  of  Gillott's 
pens.  It  is  in  my  inkstand  now,  I  tell  you.  Anybody 
may  see  it.  The  handwriting  on  the  check,  for  such  the 
document  was,  was  the  writing  of  a  female.  It  ran  thus : 
"London,  midnight,  March  31,  1862.  Pay  the  bearer 
one  thousand  and  fifty  pounds.  Rachel  Sidonia.  To 
Messrs.  Sidonia,  Pozzosanto,  &  Co.,  London." 

"  Noblest  and  best  of  women  !  "  said  Pinto,  kissing  the 
sheet  of  paper  with  much  reverence ;  "  my  good  Mr. 
Roundabout,  I  suppose  you  do  not  question  that  signa- 
ture ?  " 

Indeed,  the  house  of  Sidonia,  Pozzosanto,  &  Co.  is 
known  to  be  one  of  the  richest  in  Europe,  and  as  for  the 
Countess  Rachel,  she  was  known  to  be  the  chief  manager 
of  that  enormously  wealthy  establishment.  There  was 
only  one  little  difficulty,  the  Countess  Rachel  died  last 
October. 

I  pointed  out  this  circumstance,  and  tossed  over  the  pa- 
per to  Pinto  with  a  sneer. 

"  C'est  a  brendre  ou  a  laisser"  he  said  with  some  heat. 
"  You  literary  men  are  all  imbrudent ;  but  I  did  not 
tink  you  such  a  fool  wie  dis.  Your  box  is  not  worth 
twenty  pound,  and  I  offer  you  a  tausend  because  I  know 
you  want  money  to  pay  dat  rascal  Tom's  college  bills." 
(This  strange  man  actually  knew  that  my  scapegrace 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  381 

Tom  has  been  a  source  of  great  expense  and  annoyance 
to  me.)  "  You  see  money  costs  me  nothing,  and  you  re- 
fuse to  take  it !  Once,  twice  ;  will  you  take  this  check 
in  exchange  for  your  trumpery  snuff-box  ?  " 

What  could  I  do  ?  My  poor  granny's  legacy  was  valu- 
able and  dear  to  me,  but  after  all  a  thousand  guineas  are 
not  to  be  had  every  day.  "Be  it  a  bargain,"  said  I. 
"  Shall  we  have  a  glass  of  wine  on  it  ?  "  says  Pinto ;  and 
to  this  proposal  I  also  unwillingly  acceded,  reminding 
him,  by  the  way,  that  he  had  not  yet  told  me  the  story  of 
the  headless  man. 

"  Your  poor  gr-ndm-ther  was  right,  just  now,  when  she 
said  she  was  not  my  first  love.  'T  was  one  of  those  banales 
expressions "  (here  Mr.  P.  blushed  once  more)  "  which 
we  use  to  women.  We  tell  each  she  is  our  first  passion. 
They  reply  with  a  similar  illusory  formula.  No  man  is 
any  woman's  first  love ;  no  woman  any  man's.  We  are 
in  love  in  our  nurse's  arms,  and  women  coquette  with 
their  eyes  before  their  tongue  can  form  a  word.  How 
could  your  lovely  relative  love  me  ?  I  was  far,  far  too 
old  for  her.  I  am  older  than  I  look.  I  am  so  old  that 
you  would  not  believe  my  age  were  I  to  tell  you.  I 
have  loved  many  and  many  a  woman  before  your  rela- 
tive. It  has  not  always  been  fortunate  for  them  to  love 
me.  Ah,  Sophronia  !  Round  the  dreadful  circus  where 
you  fell,  and  whence  I  was  dragged  corpse-like  by 
the  heels,  there  sat  multitudes  more  savage  than  the 
lions  which  mangled  your  sweet  form  !  Ah,  tenez  !  when 
we  marched  to  the  terrible  stake  together  at  Valladolid, 
—  the  Protestant  and  the  J .  But  away  with  mem- 
ory !  Boy !  It  was  happy  for  thy  grandam  that  she 
loved  me  not. 

"  During  that  strange  period,"  he  went  on,  "  when  the 


382  THE   NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

teeming  Time  was  great  with  the  revolution  that  was 
speedily  to  be  born,  I  was  on  a  mission  in  Paris  with  my 
excellent,  my  maligned  friend,  Cagliostro.  Mesmer  was 
one  of  our  band.  I  seemed  to  occupy  but  an  obscure 
rank  in  it ;  though,  as  you  know,  in  secret  societies  the 
humble  man  may  be  a  chief  and  director,  —  the  ostensible 
leader  but  a  puppet  moved  by  unseen  hands.  Never 
mind  who  was  chief,  or  who  was  second.  Never  mind 
my  age.  It  boots  not  to  tell  it :  why  shall  I  expose  my- 
self to  your  scornful  incredulity,  —  or  reply  to  your 
questions  in  words  that  are  familiar^to  you,  but  which  yet 
you  cannot  understand?  Words  are  symbols  of  things 
which  you  know,  or  of  things  which  you  don't  know.  If 
you  don't  know  them,  to  speak  is  idle."  (Here  I  confess 
Mr.  P.  spoke  for  exactly  thirty-eight  minutes,  about 
physics,  metaphysics,  language,  the  origin  and  destiny  of 
man,  during  which  time  I  was  rather  bored,  and,  to  relieve 
my  ennui,  drank  a  half-glass  or  so  of  wine.)  "  LOVE, 
friend,  is  the  fountain  of  youth  !  It  may  not  happen  to 
me  once, — once  in  an  age:  but  when  I  love,  then  I  am 
young.  I  loved  when  I  was  in  Paris.  Bathilde, 
Bathilde,  I  loved  thee,  —  ah,  how  fondly !  Wine,  I  say, 
more  wine !  Love  is  ever  young.  I  was  a  boy  at  the 
little  feet  of  Bathilde  de  Bechamel,  —  the  fair,  the  fond, 
the  fickle,  ah,  the  false ! "  The  strange  old  man's  agony 
was  here  really  terrific,  and  he  showed  himself  much 
more  agitated  than  he  had  been  when  speaking  about 
my  gr-ndm-th-r. 

"  I  thought  Blanche  might  love  me.  I  could  speak  to 
her  in  the  language  of  all  countries,  and  tell  her  the 
lore  of  all  ages.  I  could  trace  the  nursery  legends  which 
she  loved  up  to  their  Sanscrit  source,  and  whisper  to  her 
the  darkling  mysteries  of  Egyptian  Magi.  I  could  chant 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  383 

for  her  the  wild  chorus  that  rang  in  the  dishevelled  Eleu- 
sinian  revel:  I  could  tell  her,  and  I  would,  the  watch- 
word never  known  but  to  one  woman,  the  Saban  queen, 
which  Hiram  breathed  in  the  abysmal  ear  of  Solomon. 
—  You  don't  attend.  Psha !  you  have  drunk  too  much 
wine  ! "  Perhaps  I  may  as  well  own  that  1  was  not 
attending,  for  he  had  been  carrying  on  for  about  fifty- 
seven  minutes;  and  I  don't  like  a  man  to  have  all  the 
talk  to  himself. 

"Blanche  de  Bechamel  was  wild,  then,  about  this 
secret  of  Masonry.  In  early,  early  days  I  loved,  I  mar- 
ried a  girl  fair  as  Blanche,  who,  too,  was  tormented  by 
curiosity,  who,  too,  would  peep  into  my  closet,  —  into  the 
only  secret  I  guarded  from  her.  A  dreadful  fate  befell 
poor  Fatima.  An  accident  shortened  her  life.  Poor 
thing !  she  had  a  foolish  sister  who  urged  her  on.  I 
always  told  her  to  beware  of  Ann.  She  died.  They  said 
her  brothers  killed  her.  A  gross  falsehood.  Am  I  dead  ? 
If  I  were,  could  I  pledge  you  in  this  wine  ?  " 

"  Was  your  name,"  I  asked,  quite  bewildered,  "  was 
your  name,  pray,  then,  ever  Blueb " 

"  Hush !  the  waiter  will  overhear  you.  Methought  we 
were  speaking  of  Blanche  de  Bechamel.  I  loved  her, 
young  man.  My  pearls,  and  diamonds,  and  treasure,  my 
wit,  my  wisdom,  my  passion,  I  flung  them  all  into  the 
child's  lap.  I  was  a  fool !  Was  strong  Samson  not  as  weak 
as  I  ?  Was  Solomon  the  Wise  much  better  when  Balkis 
wheedled  him  ?  I  said  to  the  king  —  But  enough  of 
that,  I  spake  of  Blanche  de  Bechamel. 

"  Curiosity  was  the  poor  child's  foible.  I  could  see,  as 
I  talked  to  her,  that  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere  (as  yours, 
my  friend,  have  been  absent  once  or  twice  to-night).  To 
know  the  secret  of  Masonry  was  the  wretched  child's 


384  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

mad  desire.  With  a  thousand  wiles,  smiles,  caresses,  she 
strove  to  coax  it  from  me,  —  from  me,  —  ha !  ha ! 

"  I  had  an  apprentice,  —  the  son  of  a  dear  friend,  who 
died  by  my  side  at  Rossbach,  when  Soubise,  with  whose 
army  I  happened  to  be,  suffered  a  dreadful  defeat  for 
neglecting  my  advice.  The  young  Chevalier  Goby  de 
Mouchy  was  glad  enough  to  serve  as  my  clerk,  and  help 
in  some  chemical  experiments  in  which  I  was  engaged 
with  my  friend  Dr.  Mesmer.  Bathilde  saw  this  young 
man.  Since  women  were,  has  it  not  been  their  business 
to  smile  and  deceive,  to  fondle  and  lure  ?  Away  !  From 
the  very  first  it  has  been  so ! "  And  as  my  companion 
spoke,  he  looked  as  wicked  as  the  serpent  that  coiled 
round  the  tree,  and  hissed  a  poisoned  counsel  to  the  first 
woman. 

"  One  evening  I  went,  as  was  my  wont,  to  see  Blanche. 
She  was  radiant ;  she  was  wild  with  spirits ;  a  saucy 
triumph  blazed  in  her  blue  eyes.  She  talked,  she  rattled 
in  her  childish  way.  She  uttered,  in  the  course  of  her 
rhapsody,  a  hint  —  an  intimation  —  so  terrible  that  the 
truth  flashed  across  me  in  a  moment.  Did  I  ask  her  ? 
She  would  lie  to  me.  But  I  know  how  to  make  falsehood 
impossible.  And  I  ordered  her  to  go  to  sleep" 

At  this  moment  the  clock  (after  its  previous  convul- 
sions) sounded  TWELVE.  And  as  the  new  Editor  of  the 
Cornhill  Magazine  —  and  he,  I  promise  you,  won't  stand 
any  nonsense  —  will  only  allow  seven  pages,  I  am  obliged 
to  leave  off  at  THE  VERY  MOST  INTERESTING  POINT  OF 
THE  STORY. 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  385 


PART   III. 

ARE  you  of  our  fraternity  ?  I  see  you  are  not.  The 
secret  which  Mademoiselle  de  Bechamel  confided  to 
me  in  her  mad  triumph  and  wild  hoyden  spirits,  —  she  was 
but  a  child,  poor  thing,  poor  thing,  scarce  fifteen  :  —  but  I 
love  them  young,  —  a  folly  not  unusual  with  the  old  ! " 
(Here  Mr.  Pinto  thrust  his  knuckles  into  his  hollow  eyes  ; 
and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  so  little  regardful  was  he  of  personal 
cleanliness,  that  his  tears  made  streaks  of  white  over  his 
gnarled  dark  hands.)  "  Ah,  at  fifteen,  poor  child,  thy  fate 
was  terrible !  Go  to  !  It  is  not  good  to  love  me,  friend. 
They  prosper  not  who  do.  I  divine  you.  You  need  not 
say  what  you  are  thinking  —  " 

In  truth,  I  was  thinking,  if  girls  fall  in  love  with  this 
sallow,  hooked-nosed,  glass-eyed,  wooden-legged,  dirty, 
hideous  old  man,  with  the  sham  teeth,  they  have  a  queer 
taste.  That  is  what  I  was  thinking. 

"  Jack  Wilks  said  the  handsomest  man  in  London  had 
but  half  an  hour's  start  of  him.  And,  without  vanity,  I 
am  scarcely  uglier  than  Jack  Wilks.  We  were  members 
of  the  same  club  at  Medenham  Abbey,  Jack  and  I,  and 
had  many  a  merry  night  together.  Well,  sir,  I —  Mary 
of  Scotland  knew  me  but  as  a  little  hunchbacked  music- 
master  ;  and  yet,  and  yet,  I  think,  she  was  not  indifferent 

to  her  David  Riz and  she  came  to  misfortune.  They 

all  do,  —  they  all  do!" 

"  Sir,  you  are  wandering  from  your  point!"  I  said, 
with  some  severity.  For,  really,  for  this  old  humbug  to 
hint  that  he  had  been  the  baboon  who  frightened  the  club 
at  Medenham,  that  he  had  been  in  the  Inquisition  at  Val- 
ladolid,  —  that,  under  the  name  of  D.  Riz,  as  he  called  it, 
17  Y 


386  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

he  had  known  the  lovely  Queen  of  Scots,  —  was  a  little 
too  much.  "  Sir,"  then  I  said,  "  you  were  speaking  about 
a  Miss  de  Bechamel.  I  really  have  not  time  to  hear  all 
your  biography." 

"  Faith,  the  good  wine  gets  into  my  head."  (I  should 
think  so,  the  old  toper !  Four  bottles  all  but  two  glasses.) 
"  To  return  to  poor  Blanche.  As  I  sat  laughing,  joking 
with  her,  she  let  slip  a  word,  a  little  word,  which  filled  me 
with  dismay.  Some  one  had  told  her  a  part  of  the  Secret, 
—  the  secret  which  has  been  divulged  scarce  thrice  in 
three  thousand  years,  —  the  Secret  of  the  Freemasons. 
Do  you  know  what  happens  to  those  uninitiate  who  learn 
that  secret  ?  to  those  wretched  men  the  initiate  who  re- 
veal it?" 

As  Pinto  spoke  to  me,  he  looked  through  and  through 
me  with  his  horrible  piercing  glance,  so  that  I  sat  quite 
uneasily  on  my  bench.  He  continued  :  "  Did  I  question 
her  awake  ?  I  knew  she  would  lie  to  me.  Poor  child  ! 
I  loved  her  no  less  because  I  did  not  believe  a  word  she 
said.  I  loved  her  blue  eye,  her  golden  hair,  her  delicious 
voice,  that  was  true  in  song,  though  when  she  spoke,  false 
as  Eblis  !  You  are  aware  that  I  possess  in  rather  a  re- 
markable degree  what  we  have  agreed  to  call  the  mes- 
meric power.  I  set  the  unhappy  girl  to  sleep.  Then 
she  was  obliged  to  tell  me  all.  It  was  as  I  had  surmised. 
Goby  de  Mouchy,  my  wretched,  besotted,  miserable  sec- 
retary, in  his  visits  to  the  chateau  of  the  old  Marquis  de 
Bechamel,  who  was  one  of  our  society,  had  seen  Blanche. 
I  suppose  it  was  because  she  had  been  warned  that  he 
was  worthless,  and  poor,  artful,  and  a  coward,  she  loved 
him.  She  wormed  out  of  the  besotted  wretch  the  secrets 
of  our  Order.  '  Did  he  tell  you  the  NUMBER  ONE  ? '  I 
asked. 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  387 

«  She  said,  <  Yes.' 

"  *  Did  he,'  I  further  inquired,  '  tell  you  the  — ' 

"  '  O,  don't  ask  me,  don't  ask  me  ! '  she  said,  writhing 
on  the  sofa,  where  she  lay  in  the  presence  of  the  Marquis 
de  Bechamel,  her  most  unhappy  father.  Poor  Bechamel, 
poor  Bechamel !  How  pale  he  looked  as  I  spoke  !  '  Did 
he  tell  you,'  I  repeated  with  a  dreadful  calm,  *  the  NUM- 
BER TWO  ? '  She  said,  '  Yes.' 

"  The  poor  old  marquis  rose  up,  and  clasping  his  hands, 

fell  on  his  knees  before  Count  Cagl Bah !  I  went 

by  a  different  name  then.  Vat 's  in  a  name  ?  Dat  vich 
ve  call  a  Rosicrucian  by  any  other  name  vil  smell  as 
sveet.  l  Monsieur,'  he  said,  *  I  am  old,  —  I  am  rich.  I 
have  five  hundred  thousand  livres  of  rentes  in  Picardy. 
I  have  half  as  much  in  Artois.  I  have  two  hundred  and 
eighty  thousand  on  the  Grand  Livre.  I  am  promised  by 
my  sovereign  a  dukedom  and  his  orders,  with  a  reversion 
to  my  heir.  I  am  a  Grandee  of  Spain  of  the  First  Class, 
and  Duke  of  Volovento.  Take  my  titles,  my  ready 
money,  my  life,  my  honor,  everything  I  have  in  the 
world,  but  don't  ask  the  THIRD  QUESTION.' 

" '  Godefroid  de  Bouillon,  Comte  de  Bechamel,  Grandee 
of  Spain  and  Prince  of  Volovento,  in  our  Assembly  what 
was  the  oath  you  swore  ?  ' '  The  old  man  writhed  as  he 
remembered  its  terrific  purport. 

"Though  my  heart  was  racked  with  agony,  and  I 
would  have  died,  ay,  cheerfully  "  (died,  indeed,  as  if  that 
were  a  penalty !)  "  to  spare  yonder  lovely  child  a  pang,  I 
said  to  her  calmly,  '  Blanche  de  Bechamel,  did  Goby  de 
Mouchy  tell  you  secret  NUMBER  THREE  ? ' 

"  She  whispered  a  oui  that  was  quite  faint,  faint  and 
small.  But  her  poor  father  fell  in  convulsions  at  her  feet. 

"She  died  suddenly  that  night.     Did  I  not  tell  you 


388  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

these  I  love  come  to  no  good  ?  When  General  Bonaparte 
crossed  the  Saint  Bernard,  he  saw  in  the  convent  an  old 
monk  with  a  white  beard,  wandering  about  the  corridors, 
cheerful  and  rather  stout,  but  mad,  —  mad  as  a  March 
hare.  *  General,'  I  said  to  him,  '  did  you  ever  see  that 
face  before  ?  '  He  had  not.  He  had  not  mingled  much 
with  the  higher  classes  of  our  society  before  the  Revolu- 
tion, /knew  the  poor  old  man  well  enough  ;  he  was  the 
last  of  a  noble  race,  and  I  loved  his  child." 

«  And  did  she  die  by  —  ?  " 

"  Man !  did  I  say  so  ?  Do  I  whisper  the  secrets  of 
the  Vehmgericht?  I  say  she  died  that  night;  and  he, — 
he,  the  heartless,  the  villain,  the  betrayer,  —  you  saw  him 
seated  in  yonder  curiosity-shop,  by  yonder  guillotine,  with 
his  scoundrelly  head  in  his  lap. 

"  You  saw  how  slight  that  instrument  was  ?  It  was 
one  of  the  first  which  Guillotin  made,  and  which  he 
showed  to  private  friends  in  a  hangar  in  the  Rue  Picpus, 
where  he  lived.  The  invention  created  some  little  con- 
versation amongst  scientific  men  at  the  time,  though  I 
remember  a  machine  in  Edinburgh  of  a  very  similar  con- 
struction, two  hundred  —  well,  many,  many  years  ago,  — 
and  at  a  breakfast  which  Guillotin  gave  he  showed  us  the 
instrument,  and  much 'talk  arose  amongst  us  as  to  whether 
people  suffered  under  it. 

"  And  now  I  must  tell  you  what  befell  the  traitor  who 
had  caused  all  this  suffering.  Did  he  know  that  the  poor 
child's  death  was  A  SENTENCE  ?  He  felt  a  cowardly  sat- 
isfaction that  with  her  was  gone  the  secret  of  his  treason. 
Then  he  began  to  doubt.  I  had  MEANS  to  penetrate  all 
his  thoughts,  as  well  as  to  know  his  acts.  Then  he  be- 
came a  slave  to  a  horrible  fear.  He  fled  in  abject  terror 
to  a  conven.t.  They  still  existed  in  Paris;  and  behind 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  389 

the  walls  of  Jacobins  the  wretch  thought  himself  secure. 
Poor  fool !  I  had  but  to  set  one  of  my  somnambulists  to 
sleep.  Her  spirit  went  forth  and  spied  the  shuddering 
wretch  in  his  cell.  She  described  the  street,  the  gate,  the 
convent,  the  very  dress  which  he  wore,  and  which  you 
saw  to-day. 

"  And  now  this  is  what  happened.  In  his  chamber  in 
the  Rue  St.  Honore,  at  Paris,  sat  a  man  alone,  —  a  man 
who  has  been  maligned,  a  man  who  has  been  called  a 
knave  and  charlatan,  a  man  who  has  been  persecuted 
even  to  the  death,  it  is  said,  in  Roman  Inquisitions,  for- 
sooth, and  elsewhere.  Ha !  ha !  A  man  who  has  a  mighty 
will. 

"  And  looking  towards  the  Jacobin  Convent  (of  which, 
from  his  chamber,  he  could  see  the  spires  and  trees),  this 
man  WILLED.  And  it  was  not  yet  dawn.  And  he  willed  ; 
and  one  who  was  lying  in  his  cell  in  the  Convent  of  Jaco- 
bins, awake  and  shuddering  with  terror  for  a  crime  which 
he  had  committed,  fell  asleep. 

"  But  though  he  was  asleep  his  eyes  were  open. 

"  And  after  tossing  and  writhing,  and  clinging  to  the 
pallet,  and  saying,  <  No,  I  will  not  go,'  he  rose  up  and 
donned  his  clothes,  • —  a  gray  coat,  a  vest  of  white  pique, 
black  satin  small-clothes,  ribbed  'silk  stockings,  and  a 
white  sj;ock  with  a  steel  buckle;  and  he  arranged  his 
hair,  and  he  tied  his  queue,  all  the  while  being  in  that 
strange  somnolence  which  walks,  which  moves,  which 
FLIES  sometimes,  which  sees,  which  is  indifferent  to  pain, 
which  OBEYS.  And  he  put  on  his  hat,  and  he  went  forth 
from  his  cell ;  and  though  the  dawn  was  not  yet,  he  trod 
the  corridors  as  seeing  them.  And  he  passed  into  the 
cloister,  and  then  into  the  garden  where  lie  the  ancient 
dead.  And  he  came  to  the  wicket,  which  Brother  Jerome 


390  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

was  opening  just  at  the  dawning.  And  the  crowd  was 
already  waiting  with  their  cans  and  bowls  to  receive  the 
alms  of  the  good  brethren. 

"  And  he  passed  through  the  crowd  and  went  on  his 
way  through,  and  the  few  people  then  abroad  who  marked 
him,  said,  *  Tiens  !  How  very  odd  he  looks  !  He  looks 
like  a  man  walking  in  his  sleep  ! '  This  was  said  by  va- 
rious persons :  — 

"  By  milk-women,  with  their  cans  and  carts,  coming 
into  the  town. 

"  By  roysterers,  who  had  been  drinking  at  the  taverns 
of  the  Barrier,  for  it  was  Mid-Lent. 

"  By  the  sergeants  of  the  watch,  who  eyed  him  sternly 
as  he  passed  near  their  halberds. 

"  But  he  passed  on  unmoved  by  the  halberds, 

"  Unmoved  by  the  cries  of  the  roysterers, 

"  By  the  market-women  coming  with  their  milk  and  eggs. 

"  He  walked  through  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  I  say  :  — 

"  By  the  Rue  Rambuteau, 

"  By  the  Rue  St.  Antoine, 

"  By  the  King's  Chateau  of  the  Bastille, 

"  By  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine. 

"  And  he  came  to  No.  29  in  the  Rue  Picpus,  —  a  house 
which  then  stood  between  a  court  and  garden,  — 

"  That  is,  there  was  a  building  of  one  story,  with,  a  great 
coach-door. 

"  Then  there  was  a  court,  around  which  were  stables, 
coach-houses,  offices. 

"  Then  there  was  a  house,  —  a  two-storied  house,  with 
&  perron  in  front. 

"  Behind  the  house  was  a  garden,  —  a  garden  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  French  feet  in  length. 

"  And  as  one  hundred  feet  of  France  equal  one  hun- 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  391 

dred  and  six  feet  of  England,  this  garden,  my  friends, 
equalled  exactly  two  hundred  and  sixty-five  feet  of  Brit- 
ish measure. 

"In  the  centre  of  the  garden  was  a  fountain  and  a 
statue,  —  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  two  statues.  One 
was  recumbent, — a  man.  Over  him,  sabre  in  hand,  stood 
a  woman. 

"The  man  was  Olofernes.  The  woman  was  Judith. 
From  the  head,  from  the  trunk,  the  water  gushed.  It 
was  the  taste  of  the  doctor;  —  was  it  not  a  droll  of 
taste  ? 

"  At  the  end  of  the  garden  was  the  doctor's  cabinet  of 
study.  My  faith,  a  singular  cabinet,  and  singular  pic- 
tures !  — 

"  Decapitation  of  Charles  Premier  at  Vitehall. 

"Decapitation  of  Montrose  at  Edimbourg. 

"  Decapitation  of  Cinq  Mars.  When  I  tell  you  that  he 
was  a  man  of  a  taste  charming  ! 

"  Through  this  garden,  by  these  statues,  up  these  stairs, 
went  the  pale  figure  of  him  who,  the  porter  said,  knew 
the  way  of  the  house.  He  did.  Turning  neither  right 
nor  left,  he  seemed  to  walk  through  the  statues,  the  ob- 
stacles, the  flower-beds,  the  stairs,  the  door,  the  tables, 
the  chairs. 

"  In  the  corner  of  the  room  was  THAT  INSTRUMENT 
which  Guillotin  had  just  invented  and  perfected.  One 
day  he  was  to  lay  his  own  head  under  his  own  axe. 
Peace  be  to  his  name !  With  him  I  deal  not ! 

"  In  a  frame  of  mahogany,  neatly  worked,  was  a  board 
with  a  half-circle  in  it,  over  which  another  board  fitted. 
Above  was  a  heavy  axe,  which  fell  —  you  know  how.  It 
was  held  up  by  a  rope,  and  when  this  rope  was  untied,  or 
cut,  the  steel  fell. 


392  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

"  To  the  story  which  I  now  have  to  relate  you  may 
give  credence,  or  not,  as  you  will.  The  sleeping  man 
went  up  to  that  instrument. 

"  He  laid  his  head  in  it,  asleep. 

"  Asleep ! 

"  He  then  took  a  little  penknife  out  of  the  pocket  of 
his  white  dimity  waistcoat. 

"  He  cut  the  rope,  asleep  ! 

"  The  axe  descended  on  the  head  of  the  traitor  and  vil- 
lain. The  notch  in  it  was  made  by  the  steel  buckle  of 
his  stock,  which  was  cut  through. 

"  A  strange  legend  has  got  abroad  that  after  the  deed 
was  done,  the  figure  rose,  took  the  head  from  the  basket, 
walked  forth  through  the  garden,  and  by  the  screaming 
porters  at  the  gate,  and  went  and  laid  itself  down  at  the 
Morgue.  But  for  this  I  will  not  vouch.  Only  of  this  be 
sure.  '  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Ho- 
ratio, than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy.'  More 
and  more  the  light  peeps  through  the  chinks.  Soon, 
amidst  music  ravishing,  the  curtain  will  rise,  and  the  glo- 
rious scene  be  displayed.  Adieu  !  Remember  me.  Ha ! 
't  is  dawn,"  Pinto  said.  And  he  was  gone. 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  my  first  movement  was  to 
clutch  the  check  which  he  had  left  with  me,  and  which  I 
was  determined  to  present  the  very  moment  the  bank 
opened.  I  know  the  importance  of  these  things,  and  that 
men  change  their  mind  sometimes.  I  sprang  through  the 
streets  to  the  great  banking-house  of  Manasseh,  in  Duke 
Street.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  actually  flew  as  I  walked. 
As  the  clock  struck  ten  I  was  at  the  counter  and  laid 
down  my  check. 

The  gentleman  who  received  it,  who  was  one  of  the  He- 
brew persuasion,  as  were  the  other  two  hundred  clerks  of 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  393 

the  establishment,  having  looked  at  the  draft  with  terror 
in  his  countenance,  then  looked  at  me,  then  called  to  him- 
self two  of  his  fellow  clerks,  and  queer  it  was  to  see  all 
their  aquiline  beaks  over  the  paper. 

"  Come,  come  !  "  said  I,  "  don't  keep  me  here  all  day. 
Hand  me  over  the  money,  short,  if  you  please !  "  for  I 
was,  you  see,  a  little  alarmed,  and  so  determined  to  as- 
sume some  extra  bluster. 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  step  into  the  parlor  to 
the  partners  ?  "  the  clerk  said,  and  I  followed  him. 

"  What,  again  ? "  shrieked  a  bald-headed,  red-whis- 
kered gentleman,  whom  I  knew  to  be  Mr.  Manasseh. 
"  Mr.  Salathiel,  this  is  too  bad !  Leave  me  with  this 
gentleman,  S."  And  the  clerk  disappeared. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  know  how  you  came  by  this ;  the 
Count  de  Pinto  gave  it  you.  It  is  too  bad  !  I  honor 
my  parents ;  I  honor  their  parents ;  I  honor  their  bills ! 
But  this  one  of  grandma's  is  too  bad,  —  it  is,  upon  my 
word,  now!  She  Ve  been  dead  these  five-and-thirty 
years.  And  this  last  four  months  she  has  left  her  burial- 
place  and  took  to  drawing  on  our  'ouse !  It  's  too  bad, 
grandma;  it  is  too  bad!"  and  he  appealed  to  me,  and 
tears  actually  trickled  down  his  nose. 

"  Is  it  the  Countess  Sidonia's  check  or  not  ?  "  I  asked, 
haughtily. 

"  But,  I  tell  you,  she  's  dead !  It 's  a  shame !  —  it 's  a 
shame  !  —  it  is,  grandmamma !  "  and  he  cried,  and  wiped 
his  great  nose  in  his  yellow  pocket-handkerchief.  "  Look 
year,  —  will  you  take  pounds  instead  of  guineas  ?  She  's 
dead,  I  tell  you  !  It 's  no  go  !  Take  the  pounds,  —  one 
tausand  pound !  —  ten  nice,  neat,  crisp  hundred-pound 
notes,  and  go  away  vid  you,  do  ?  " 

"  I  will  have  my  bond,  sir,  or  nothing,"  I  said  ;  and  I 
17* 


394  THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE. 

put  on  an  attitude  of  resolution  which  I  confess  surprised 
even  myself. 

"  Wery  veil,"  he  shrieked,  with  many  oaths,  "  then  you 
shall  have  noting,  —  ha,  ha,  ha !  —  noting  but  a  police- 
man !  Mr.  Abednego,  call  a  policeman !  Take  that, 
you  humbug  and  impostor!"  and  here,  with  an  abun- 
dance of  frightful  language  which  I  dare  not  repeat,  the 
wealthy  banker  abused  and  defied  me. 

Au  bout  du  compte,  what  was  I  to  do,  if  a  banker  did 
not  choose  to  honor  a  check  drawn  by  his  dead  grand- 
mother ?  I  began  to  wish  I  had  my  snuff-box  back.  I 
began  to  think  I  was  a  fool  for  changing  that  little  old- 
fashioned  gold  for  this  slip  of  strange  paper. 

Meanwhile  the  banker  had  passed  from  his  fit  of  anger 
to  a  paroxysm  of  despair.  He  seemed  to  be  addressing 
some  person  invisible,  but  in  the  room :  "  Look  here, 
ma'am,  you  've  really  been  coming  it  too  strong.  A 
hundred  thousand  in  six  months,  and  now  a  thousand 
more !  The  'ouse  can't  stand  it ;  it  won't  stand  it,  I  say  ! 
What  ?  Oh  !  mercy,  mercy  ! " 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  A  HAND  fluttered  over 
the  table  in  the  air !  It  was  a  female  hand,  —  that  which 
I  had  seen  the  night  before.  That  female  hand  took  a 
pen  from  the  green-baize  table,  dipped  it  in  a  silver  ink- 
stand, and  wrote  on  a  quarter  of  a  sheet  of  foolscap  on 
the  blotting-bobk,  "  How  about  the  diamond  robbery  ? 
If  you  do  not  pay,  I  will  tell  him  where  they  are." 

What  diamonds  ?  what  robbery  ?  what  was  this  mys- 
tery ?  That  will  never  be  ascertained,  for  the  wretched 
man's  demeanor  instantly  changed.  "  Certainly,  sir ;  — 
O,  certainly,"  he  said,  forcing  a  grin.  "  How  will  you 
have  the  money,  sir?  All  right,  Mr.  Abednego.  This 
Way  out." 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.  395 

"  I  hope  I  shall  often  see  you  again,"  I  said ;  on  which 
I  own  poor  Manasseh  gave  a  dreadful  grin,  and  shot 
back  into  his  parlor. 

I  ran  home,  clutching  the  ten  delicious,  crisp  hundred 
pounds,  and  the  dear  little  fifty  which  made  up  the  ac- 
count. I  flew  through  the  streets  again.  I  got  to  my 
chambers.  I  bolted  the  outer  doors.  I  sank  back  in  my 
great  chair,  and  slept 

My  first  thing  on  waking  was  to  feel  for  my  money. 
Perdition !  Where  was  I  ?  Ha !  —  on  the  table  before 
me  was  my  grandmother's  snuff-box,  and  by  its  side  one 
of  those  awful  —  those  admirable  —  sensation  novels, 
which  I  had  been  reading,  and  which  are  full  of  deli- 
cious wonder. 

But  that  the  guillotine  is  still  to  be  seen  at  Mr.  Gale's, 
No.  47,  High  Holborn,  I  give  you  MY  HONOR.  I  suppose 
I  was  dreaming  about  it.  I  don't  know.  What  is 
dreaming  ?  What  is  life  ?  Why  should  n't  I  sleep  on 
the  ceiling?  —  and  am  I  sitting  on  it  now,  or  on  the 
floor  ?  I  am  puzzled.  But  enough.  If  the  fashion  for 
sensation  novels  goes  on,  I  tell  you  I  will  write  one  in 
fifty  volumes.  For  the  present,  DIXI.  But  between 
ourselves,  this  Pinto,  who  fought  at  the  Colosseum,  who 
was  nearly  being  roasted  by  the  Inquisition,  and  sang 
duets  at  Holyrood,  I  am  rather  sorry  to  lose  him  after 
three  little  bits  of  Roundabout  Papers.  Et  vous  ? 

JUNE,  1862. 


DE    FINIBUS. 

]HEN  Swift  was  in  love  with  Stella,  and  de- 
spatching her  a  letter  from  London  thrice  a 
month  by  the  Irish  packet,  you  may  remem- 
ber how  he  would  begin  letter  No.  xxin.,  we 
will  say,  on  the  very  day  when  xxn.  had  been  sent  away, 
stealing  out  of  the  coffee-house  or  the  assembly  so  as  to  be 
able  to  prattle  with  his  dear  ;  "  never  letting  go  her  kind 
hand,  as  it  were,"  as  some  commentator  or  other  has  said 
in  speaking  of  the  Dean  and  his  amour.  When  Mr.  John- 
son, walking  to  Dodsley's,  and  touching  the  posts  in  Pall 
Mall  as  he  walked,  forgot  to  pat  the  head  of  one  of  them, 
he  went  back  and  imposed  his  hands  on  it,  —  impelled  I 
know  not  by  what  superstition.  I  have  this  I  hope  not 
dangerous  mania  too.  As  soon  as  a  piece  of  work  is  out 
of  hand,  and  before  going  to  sleep,  I  like  to  begin  an- 
other :  it  may  be  to  write  only  half  a  dozen  lines  :  but 
that  is  something  towards  Number  the  Next.  The  print- 
er's boy  has  not  yet  reached  Green  Arbor  Court  with 
the  copy.  Those  people  who  were  alive  half  an  hour 
since,  Pendennis,  Clive  Newcome,  and  (what  do  you  call 
him  ?  what  was  the  name  of  the  last  hero  ?  I  remember 
now  !)  Philip  Firmin,  have  hardly  drunk  their  glass  of 
wine,  and  the  mammas  have  only  tfeis  minute  got  the 
children's  cloaks  on,  and  have  been  bowed  out  of  my 


DE  FINIBUS.  397 

premises,  —  and  here  I  come  back  to  the  study  again  : 
tamen  usque  recurro.  How  lonely  it  looks  now  all  these 
people  are  gone !  My  dear,  good  friends,  some  folks  are  ut- 
terly tired  of  you,  and  say,  "  What  a  poverty  of  friends  the 
man  has  !  He  is  always  asking  us  to  meet  those  Penden- 
nises,  Newcomes,  and  so  forth.  Why  does  he  not  intro- 
duce us  to  some  new  characters  ?  Why  is  he  not  thrilling 
like  Twostars,  learned  and  profound  like  Threestars,  ex- 
quisitely humorous  and  human  like  Fourstars  ?  Why, 
finally,  is  he  not  somebody  else  ?  "  My  good  people,  it  is 
not  only  impossible  to  please  you  all,  but  it  is  absurd  to 
try.  The  dish  which  one  man  devours,  another  dislikes. 
Is  the  dinner  of  to-day  not  to  your  taste  ?  Let  us  hope 
to-morrow's  entertainment  will  be  more  agreeable.  .... 
I  resume  my  original  subject.  What  an  odd,  pleasant, 
humorous,  melancholy  feeling  it  is  to  sit  in  the  study, 
alone  and  quiet,  now  all  these  people  are  gone  who  have 
been  boarding  and  lodging  with  me  for  twenty  months  ! 
They  have  interrupted  my  rest :  they  have  plagued  me  at 
all  sorts  of  minutes  :  they  have  thrust  themselves  upon 
me  when  I  was  ill,  or  wished  to  be  idle,  and  I  have 
growled  out  a  "  Be  hanged  to  you,  can't  you  leave  me 
alone  now  ?  "  Once  or  twice  they  have  prevented  my 
going  out  to  dinner.  Many  and  many  a  time  they  have 
prevented  rny  coming  home,  because  I  knew  they  were 
there  waiting  in  the  study,  and  a  plague  take  them  !  and 
I  have  left  home  and  family,  and  gone  to  dine  at  the 
Club,  and  told  nobody  where  I  went.  They  have  bored 
me,  those  people.  They  have  plagued  me  at  all  sorts  of 
uncomfortable  hours.  They  have  made  such  a  disturb- 
ance in  my  mind  and  house,  that  sometimes  I  have  hardly 
known  what  was  going  on  in  my  family,  and  scarcely 
have  heard  what  my  neighbor  said  to  me.  They  are  gone 


398  DE  FINIBUS. 

at  last ;  and  you  would  expect  me  to  be  at  ease  ?  Far 
from  it.  I  should  almost  be  glad  if  Woolcomb  would 
walk  in  and  talk  to  me ;  or  Twysden  reappear,  take  his 
place  in  that  chair  opposite  me,  and  begin  one  of  his  tre- 
mendous stories. 

Madmen,  you  know,  see  visions,  hold  conversations 
with,  even  draw  the  likeness  of  people  invisible  to  you 
and  me.  Is  this  making  of  people  out  of  fancy  mad- 
ness ?  and  are  novel-writers  at  all  entitled  to  strait-waist- 
coats ?  I  often  forget  people's  names  in  life ;  and  in  my 
own  stories  contritely  own  that  I  make  dreadful  blunders 
regarding  them ;  but  I  declare,  my  dear  sir,  with  respect 
to  the  personages  introduced  into  your  humble  servant's 
fables,  I  know  the  people  utterly,  —  I  know  the  sound  of 
their  voices.  A  gentleman  came  in  to  see  me  the  other 
day,  who  was  so  like  the  picture  of  Philip  Firmin  in 
Mr.  Walker's  charming  drawings  in  the  Cornhill  Maga- 
zine, that  he  was  quite  a  curiosity  to  me.  The  same  eyes, 
beard,  shoulders,  just  as  you  have  seen  them  from  month 
to  month.  Well,  he  is  not  like  the  Philip  Firmin  in  my 
mind.  Asleep,  asleep  in  the  grave,  lies  the  bold,  the  gen- 
erous, the  reckless,  the  tender-hearted  creature  whom  I 
have  made  to  pass  through  those  adventures  which  have 
just  been  brought  to  an  end.  It  is  years  since  I  heard 
the  laughter  ringing,  or  saw  the  bright  blue  eyes.  When 
I  knew  him  both  were  young.  I  become  young  as  I  think 
of  him.  And  this  morning  he  was  alive  again  in  this 
room,  ready  to  laugh,  to  fight,  to  weep.  As  I  write,  do 
you  know,  it  is  the  gray  of  evening ;  the  house  is  quiet ; 
everybody  is  out ;  the  room  is  getting  a  little  dark,  and  I 
look  rather  wistfully  up  from  the  paper  with  perhaps  ever 

so  little  fancy  that  HE  MAY  COME  IN.: No? 

No  movement.     No  gray  shade,  growing  more  palpable, 


DE  FINIBUS.  399 

out  of  which  at  last  look  the  well-known  eyes.  No,  the 
printer  came  and  took  him  away  with  the  last  page  of  the 
proofs.  And  with  the  printer's  boy  did  the  whole  cortege 
of  ghosts  flit  away,  invisible  ?  Ha !  stay !  what  is  this  ? 
Angels  and  ministers  of  grace !  The  door  opens,  and  a 
dark  form  —  enters,  bearing  a  black,  —  a  black  suit  of 
clothes.  It  is  John.  He  says  it  is  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

*  *  #  *  * 

Every  man  who  has  had  his  German  tutor,  and  has 
been  coached  through  the  famous  Faust  of  Goethe  (thou 
wert  my  instructor,  good  old  Weissenborn,  and  these  eyes 
beheld  the  great  master  himself  in  dear  little  Weimar 
town  !)  has  read  those  charming  verses  which  are  prefixed 
to  the  drama,  in  which  the  poet  reverts  to  the  time  when 
his  work  was  first  composed,  and  recalls  the  friends,  now 
departed,  who  once  listened  to  his  song.  The  dear  shad- 
ows rise  up  around  him,  he  says  ;  he  lives  in  the  past 
again.  It  is  to-day  which  appears  vague  and  visionary. 
"We  humbler  writers  cannot  create  Fausts,  or  raise  up 
monumental  works  that  shall  endure  for  all  ages ;  but  our 
books  are  diaries,  in  which  our  own  feelings  must  of  neces- 
sity be  set  down.  As  we  look  to  the  page  written  last 
month,  or  ten  years  ago,  we  remember  the  day  and  its 
events ;  the  child  ill,  mayhap,  in  the  adjoining  room,  and 
the  doubts  and  fears  which  racked  the  brain  as  it  still 
pursued  its  work ;  the  dear  old  friend  who  read  the  com- 
mencement of  the  tale,  and  whose  gentle  hand  shall  be 
laid  in  ours  no  more.  I  own  for  my  part  that,  in  reading 
pages  which  this  hand  penned  formerly,  I  often  lose  sight 
of  the  text  under  my  eyes.  It  is  not  the  words  I  see  ; 
but  that  past  day ;  that  by-gone  page  of  life's  history ;  that 
tragedy,  comedy  it  may  be,  which  our  little  home  company 
was  enacting ;  that  merry-making  which  we  shared ;  that 


400  DE  FINIBUS. 

funeral  which  we  followed ;  that  bitter,  bitter  grief  which 
we  buried. 

And  such  being  the  state  of  my  mind,  I  pray  gentle 
readers  to  deal  kindly  with  their  humble  servant's  mani- 
fold short-comings,  blunders,  and  slips  of  memory.  As 
sure  as  I  read  a  page  of  my  own  composition,  I  find  a 
fault  or  two,  half  a  dozen.  Jones  is  called  Brown. 
Brown,  who  is  dead,  is  brought  to  life.  Aghast,  and 
months  after  the  number  was  printed,  I  saw  that  I  had 
called  Philip  Firmin,  Clive  Newcome.  Now  Clive  New- 
come  is  the  hero  of  another  story  by  the  reader's  most 
obedient  writer.  The  two  men  are  as  different,  in  my 
mind's  eye,  as  —  as  Lord  Palmerston  and  Mr.  Disraeli, 
let  us  say.  But  there  is  that  blunder  at  page  990,  line 
76,  volume  84  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  and  it  is  past 
mending ;  and  I  wish  in  my  life  I  had  made  no  worse  blun- 
ders or  errors  than  that  which  is  hereby  acknowledged. 

Another  Finis  written.  Another  milestone  passed  on 
this  journey  from  birth  to  the  next  world !  Sure  it  is  a 
subject  for  solemn  cogitation.  Shall  we  continue  this 
story-telling  business  and  be  voluble  to  the  end  of  our 
age  ?  Will  it  not  be  presently  time,  0  prattler,  to  hold 
your  tongue,  and  let  younger  people  speak  ?  I  have  a 
friend,  a  painter,  who,  like  other  persons  who  shall  be 
nameless,  is  growing  old.  He  has  never  painted  with 
such  laborious  finish  as  his  works  now  show.  This  master 
is  still  the  most  humble  and  diligent  of  scholars.  Of  Art, 
his  mistress,  he  is  always  an  eager,  reverent  pupil.  In 
his  calling,  in  yours,  in  mine,  industry  and  humility  will 
help  and  comfort  us.  A  word  with  you.  In  a  pretty 
large  experience  I  have  not  found  the  men  who  write 
books  superior  in  wit  or  learning  to  those  who  don't  write 
at  all.  In  regard  of  mere  information,  non-writers  must 


DE  FINIBUS.  401 

often  be  superior  to  writers.  You  don't  expect  a  lawyer 
in  full  practice  to  be  conversant  with  all  kinds  of  litera- 
ture; he  is  too  busy  with  his  law;  and  so  a  writer  is 
commonly  too  busy  with  his  own  books  to  be  able  to 
bestow  attention  on  the  works  of  other  people.  After  a 
day's  work  (in  which  I  have  been  depicting,  let  us  say, 
the  agonies  of  Louisa  on  parting  with  the  Captain,  or  the 
atrocious  behavior  of  the  wicked  Marquis  to  Lady  Emily) 
I  march  to  the  Club,  proposing  to  improve  my  mind  and 
keep  myself  "  posted  up,"  as  the  Americans  phrase  it, 
with  the  literature  of  the  day.  And  what  happens? 
Given,  a  walk  after  luncheon,  a  pleasing  book,  and  a 
most  comfortable  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  and  you  know  the 
rest.  A  doze  ensues.  Pleasing  book  drops  suddenly,  is 
picked  up  once  with  an  air  of  some  confusion,  is  laid 
presently  softly  in  lap ;  head  falls  on  comfortable  arm- 
chair cushion  ;  eyes  close ;  soft  nasal  music  is  heard.  Am 
I  telling  Club  secrets  ?  Of  afternoons,  after  lunch,  I  say, 
scores  of  sensible  fogies  have  a  doze.  Perhaps  I  have 
fallen  asleep  over  that  very  book  to  which  "  Finis  "  has 
just  been  written.  And  if  the  writer  sleeps,  what  hap- 
pens to  the  readers  ?  says  Jones,  coming  down  upon  me 
with  his  lightning  wit.  What  ?  You  did  sleep  over  it  ? 
And  a  very  good  thing  too.  These  eyes  have  more  than 
once  seen  a  friend  dozing  over  pages  which  this  hand  has 
written.  There  is  a  vignette  somewhere  in  one  of  my 
books  of  a  friend  so  caught  napping  with  "  Pendennis," 
or  the  "  Newcomes,"  in  his  lap  ;  and  if  a  writer  can  give 
you  a  sweet,  soothing,  harmless  sleep,  has  he  not  done  you 
a  kindness  ?  So  is  the  author  who  excites  and  interests 
you  worthy  of  your  thanks  and  benedictions.  I  am 
troubled  with  fever  and  ague,  that  seizes  me  at  odd 
intervals  and  prostrates  me  for  a  day.  There  is  cold 


402  DE  FINIBUS. 

fit,  for  which,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  hot  brandy-and-water 
is  prescribed,  and  this  induces  hot  fit,  and  so  on.  In  one 
or  two  of  these  fits  I  have  read  novels  with  the  most 
fearful  contentment  of  mind.  Once,  on  the  Mississippi,  it 
was  my  dearly  beloved  "  Jacob  Faithful " ;  once  at  Frank- 
fort, 0.  M.,  the  delightful  Vingt  Ans  Apres  of  Monsieur 
Dumas  ;  once  at  Tonbridge  Wells,  the  thrilling  "  Woman 
in  White " ;  and  these  books  gave  me  amusement  from 
morning  till  sunset.  I  remember  those  ague  fits  with  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  and  gratitude.  Think  of  a  whole 
day  in  bed,  and  a  good  novel  for  a  companion!  No 
cares ;  no  remorse  about  idleness ;  no  visitors ;  and  the 
Woman  in  White  or  the  Chevalier  d'Artagnan  to  tell 
me  stories  from  dawn  to  night !  "  Please,  ma'am,  my 
master's  compliments,  and  can  he  have  the  third  vol- 
ume ?  "  (This  message  was  sent  to  an  astonished  friend 
and  neighbor  who  lent  me,  volume  by  volume,  the  "  W.  in 
W.")  How  do  you  like  your  novels  ?  I  like  mine  strong, 
"  hot  with,"  and  no  mistake ;  no  love-making ;  no  obser- 
vations about  society;  little  dialogue,  except  where  the 
characters  are  bullying  each  other ;  plenty  of  fighting ; 
and  a  villain  in  the  cupboard,  who  is  to  suffer  tortures 
just  before  Finis.  I  don't  like  your  melancholy  Finis. 
I  never  read  the  history  of  a  consumptive  heroine  twice. 
If  I  might  give  a  short  hint  to  an  impartial  writer  (as 
the  Examiner  used  to  say  in  old  days),  it  would  be  to 
act,  not  a  la  mode  le  pays  de  Pole  (I  think  that  was  the 
phraseology),  but  always  to  give  quarter.  In  the  story 
of  Philip,  just  come  to  an  end,  I  have  the  permission  of 
the  author  to  state  that  he  was  going  to  drown  the  two 
villains  of  the  piece  —  a  certain  Doctor  F and  a  cer- 
tain Mr.  T.  H on  board  the  President,  or  some  other 

tragic  ship, — but  you  see  I  relented.    I  pictured  to  myself 


DE  FINIBUS.  403 

Firmin's  ghastly  face  amid  the  crowd  of  shuddering  peo- 
ple on  that  reeling  deck  in  the  lonely  ocean,  and  thought, 
"  Thou  ghastly  lying  wretch,  thou  shalt  not  be  drowned  : 
thou  shalt  have  a  fever  only ;  a  knowledge  of  thy  danger ; 
and  a  chance  —  ever  so  small  a  chance  —  of  repentance." 
I  wonder  whether  he  did  repent  when  he  found  himself 
in  the  yellow-fever,  in  Virginia  ?  The  probability  is,  he 
fancied  that  his  son  had  injured  him  very  much,  and  for- 
gave him  on  his  deathbed.  Do  you  imagine  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  genuine  right-down  remorse  in  the  world  ? 
Don't  people  rather  find  excuses  which  make  their  minds 
easy ;  endeavor  to  prove  to  themselves  that  they  have 
been  lamentably  belied  and  misunderstood ;  and  try  and 
forgive  the  persecutors  who  will  present  that  bill  when  it 
is  due  ;  and  not  bear  malice  against  the  cruel  ruffian  who 
takes  them  to  the  police-office  for  stealing  the  spoons? 
Years  ago  I  had  a  quarrel  with  a  certain  well-known 
person  (I  believed  a  statement  regarding  him  which  his 
friends  imparted  to  me,  and  which  turned  out  to  be  quite 
incorrect).  To  his  dying  day  that  quarrel  was  never 
quite  made  up.  I  said  to  his  brother,  "Why  is  your 
brother's  soul  still  dark  against  me  ?  It  is  I  who  ought 
to  be  angry  and  unforgiving ;  for  I  was  in  the  wrong." 
In  the  region  which  they  now  inhabit  (for  Finis  has  been 
set  to  the  volumes  of  the  lives  of  both  here  below), 
if  they  take  any  cognizance  of  our  squabbles,  and  tittle- 
tattles,  and  gossips  on  earth  here,  I  hope  they  admit  that 
my  little  error  was  not  of  a  nature  unpardonable.  If  you 
have  never  committed  a  worse,  my  good  sir,  surely  the 
score  against  you  will  not  be  heavy.  Ha,  dilectissimi 
fratres!  It  is  in  regard  of  sins  not  found  out  that  we 
may  say  or  sing  (in  an  undertone,  in  a  most  penitent  and 
lugubrious  minor  key),  Miserere  noUs  miseris  peccatori- 
lus. 


404  .       DE  FINIBUS. 

Among  the  sins  of  commission  which  novel-writers  not 
seldom  perpetrate,  is  the  sin  of  grandiloquence,  or  tall- 
talking,  against  which,  for  my  part,  I  will  offer  up  a  special 
libera  me.  This  is  the  sin  of  schoolmasters,  governesses, 
critics,  sermoners,  and  instructors  of  young  or  old  people. 
Nay  (for  I  am  making  a  clean  breast,  and  liberating  my 
soul),  perhaps  of  all  the  novel-spinners  now  extant,  the 
present  speaker  is  the  most  addicted  to  preaching.  Does 
he  not  stop  perpetually  in  his  story  and  begin  to  preach  to 
you  ?  When  he  ought  to  be  engaged  with  business,  is  he 
not  forever  taking  the  Muse  by  the  sleeve,  and  plaguing 
her  with  some  of  his  cynical  sermons  ?  I  cry  peccavi 
loudly  and  heartily.  I  tell  you  I  would  like  to  be  able 
to  write  a  story  which  should  show  no  egotism  whatever, 
—  in  which  there  should  be  no  reflections,  no  cynicism, 
no  vulgarity  (and  so  forth),  but  an  incident  in  every  other 
page,  a  villain,  a  battle,  a  mystery  in  every  chapter.  I 
should  like  to  be  able  to  feed  a  reader  so  spicily  as  to 
leave  him  hungering  and  thirsting  for  more  at  the  end  of 
every  monthly  meal. 

Alexandre  Dumas  describes  himself,  when  inventing 
the  plan  of  a  work,  as  lying  silent  on  his  back  for  two 
whole  days  on  the  deck  of  a  yacht  in  a  Mediterranean 
port.  At  the  end  of  the  two  days  he  arose,  and  called 
for  dinner.  In  those  two  days  he  had  built  his  plot. 
He  had  moulded  a  mighty  clay,  to  be  cast  presently  in 
perennial  brass.  The  chapters,  the  characters,  the  inci- 
dents, the  combinations  were  all  arranged  in  the  artist's 
brain  ere  he  set  a  pen  to  paper.  My  Pegasus  won't  fly, 
so  as  to  let  me  survey  the  field  frelow  me.  He  has  no 
wings,  he  is  blind  of  one  eye  certainly,  he  is  restive,  stub- 
born, slow ;  crops  a  hedge  when  he  ought  to  be  galloping, 
or  gallops  when  he  ought  to  be  quiet.  He  never  will 


DE  FINIBUS.  405 

show  off  when  I  want  him.  Sometimes  he  goes  at  a  pace 
which  surprises  me.  Sometimes,  when  I  most  wish  him 
to  make  the  running,  the  brute  turns  restive,  and  I  am 
obliged  to  let  him  take  his  own  time.  I  wonder  do  other 
novel-writers  experience  this  fatalism  ?  They  must  go  a 
certain  way,  in  spite  of  themselves.  I  have  been  sur- 
prised at  the  observations  made  by  some  of  my  characters. 
It  seems  as  if  an  occult  Power  was  moving  the  pen.  The 
personage  does  or  says  something,  and  I  ask,  how  the 
Dickens  did  he  come  to  think  of  that  ?  Every  man  has 
remarked  in  dreams,  the  vast  dramatic  power  which  is 
sometimes  evinced, — I  won't  say  the  surprising  power,  for 
nothing  does  surprise  you  in  dreams.  But  those  strange 
characters  you  meet  make  instant  observations  of  which- 
you  never  can  have  thought  previously.  In  like  manner, 
the  imagination  foretells  things.  We  spake  anon  of  the 
inflated  style  of  some  writers.  What  also  if  there  is  an 
afflated  style,  —  when  a  writer  is  like  a  Pythoness  on 
her  oracle  tripod,  and  mighty  words,  words  which  he 
cannot  help,  come  blowing,  and  bellowing,  and  whistling, 
and  moaning  through  the  speaking  pipes  of  his  bodily  or- 
gan ?  I  have  told  you  it  was  a  very  queer  shock  to  me 
the  other  day  when,  with  a  letter  of  introduction  in  his 
hand,  the  artist's  (not  my)  Philip  Firmin  walked  into  this 
room,  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite.  In  the  novel 
of  "  Pendennis,"  written  ten  years  ago,  there  is  an  account 
of  a  certain  Costigan,  whom  I  had  invented  (as  I  suppose 
authors  invent  their  personages  out  of  scraps,  heel-taps, 
odds  and  ends  of  characters).  I  was  smoking  in  a  tavern 
parlor  one  night,  and  this  Costigan  came  into  the  room 
alive,  —  the  very  man,  —  the  most  remarkable  resem- 
blance of  the  printed  sketches  of  the  man,  of  tlje  rude 
drawings  in  which  I  had  depicted  him.  He  had  the 


406  DE  FINIBUS. 

same  little  coat,  the  same  battered  hat,  cocked  on  one 
eye,  the  same  twinkle  in  that  eye.  "  Sir,"  said  I,  know- 
ing him  to  be  an  old  friend  whom  I  had  met  in  unknown 
regions,  "  sir,"  I  said,  "  may  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  brandy 
and  water  ?  "  —  "  Bedad,  ye  may"  says  he,  "  and  I'll  sing 
ye  a  song  tu."  Of  course  he  spoke  with  an  Irish  brogue. 
Of  course  he  had  been  in  the  army.  In  ten  minutes  he 
pulled  out  an  army  agent's  account,  whereon  his  name 
was  written.  A  few  months  after  we  read  of  him  in  a 
police  court.  How  had  I  come  to  know  him,  to  divine 
him  ?  Nothing  shall  convince  me  that  I  have  not  seen 
that  man  in  the  world  of  spirits.  In  the  world  of  spirits 
and  water  I  know  I  did ;  but  that  is  a  mere  quibble  of 
words.  I  was  not  surprised  when  he  spoke  in  an  Irish 
brogue.  I  had  had  cognizance  of  him  before  somehow. 
Who  has  not  felt  that  little  shock  which  arises  when  a 
person,  a  place,  some  words  in  a  book  (there  is  always  a 
collocation)  present  themselves  to  you,  and  you  know 
that  you  have  before  met  the  same  person,  words,  scene, 
and  so  forth  ? 

They  used  to  call  the  good  Sir  Walter  the  "  Wizard  of 
the  North."  What  if  some  writer  should  appear  who 
can  write  so  enchantingly  that  he  shall  be  able  to  call 
into  actual  life  the  people  whom  he  invents  ?  What  if 
Mignon,  and  Margaret,  and  Goetz  von  Berlichingen  are 
alive  now  (though  I  don't  say  they  are  visible),  and 
Dugald  Dalgetty  and  Ivanhoe  were  to  step  in  at  that 
open  window  by  the  little  garden  yonder?  Suppose 
Uncas  and  our  noble  old  Leather-Stocking  were  to  glide 
silent  in?  Suppose  Athos,  Porthos,  and  Aramis  should 
enter  with  a  noiseless  swagger,  curling  their  mustachios  ? 
And  dearest  Amelia  Booth,  on  Uncle  Toby's  arm ;  and 
Tittlebat  Titmouse,  with  his  hair  dyed  green;  and  all 


DE  FINIBUS.  407 

the  Crummies  company  of  comedians,  with  the  Gil  Bias 
troop ;  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley ;  and  the  greatest  of 
all  crazy  gentlemen,  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha,  with 
his  blessed  squire  ?  I  say  to  you,  I  look  rather  wist- 
fully towards  the  window,  musing  upon  these  people. 
Were  any  of  them  to  enter,  I  think  I  should  not  be  very 
much  frightened.  Dear  old  friends,  what  pleasant  hours 
I  have  had  with  them !  We  do  not  see  each  other  very 
often,  but  when  we  do,  we  are  ever  happy  to  meet.  I 
had  a  capital  half  hour  with  Jacob  Faithful  last  night ; 
when  the  last  sheet  was  corrected,  when  "Finis"  had 
been  written,  and  the  printer's  boy,  with  the  copy,  was 
safe  in  Green  Arbour  Court. 

So  you  are  gone,  little  printer's  boy,  with  the  last 
scratches  and  corrections  "on  the  proof,  and  a  fine  flourish 
by  way  of  Finis  at  the  story's  end.  The  last  corrections  ? 
I  say  those  last  corrections  seem  never  to  be  finished.  A 
plague  upon  the  weeds  !  Every  day,  when  I  walk  in  my 
own  little  literary  garden-plot,  I  spy  some,  and  should 
like  to  have  a  spud,  and  root  them  out.  Those  idle 
words,  neighbor,  are  past  remedy.  That  turning  back 
to  the  old  pages  produces  anything  but  elation  of  mind. 
Would  you  not  pay  a  pretty  fine  to  be  able  to  cancel 
some  of  them?  O,  the  sad  old  pages,  the  dull  old 
pages!  0,  the  cares,  the  ennui,  the  squabbles,  the  re- 
petitions, the  old  conversations  over  and  over  again ! 
But  now  and  again  a  kind  thought  is  recalled,  and  now 
and  again  a  dear  memory.  Yet  a  few  chapters  more, 
and  then  the  last :  after  which,  behold  Finis  itself  come 
to  an  end,  and  the  Infinite  begun. 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


100m-8,'65  (F6282s8)2373 


